a strange feeling

Class assignment - combine an unfinished story with a line from a book. I chose a James Patterson murder mystery)


When I got out of the hospital my camper was waiting for me. I drove out of Sinalejo heading north. I decided to finish my Baja camping some other time. After a few miles a car moved in behind me. At first I wasn't bothered but as the miles went by and the car just stayed there I became edgy. I decided to turn around and see what happened.

The guy behind me, all sideburns and tattoos, elbowed his girl friend. "Damn", he said. "What the hell is he doing now?"

I am not sure why I turned around but, as I was to find out later, it was a damned good thing that I did. Maybe it was a 6th sense I never knew I had or maybe I was just afraid of my own shadow.  What ever it was I'm glad I did turn around and head back to Sinalejo. I wondered why I was going back but I couldn't shake that edgy feeling so I kept going. The car that was following me kept going. I did not see it turn around. There, I thought, you are just being stupid.

When I drove back into Sinalejo I stopped in front of the cantina and sat there a few minutes wondering if I was crazy. I still wasn't over being accused of raping and killing that nun. Thank God for an intelligent Sheriff that used his head and not his heart. If it wasn't for him I would be hanging from a tree out in the desert. Instead of losing his head he looked at the evidence and now two sleezy Arizona bikers were in jail for the crime. Even though the mob had beat me up he stopped them from lynching me.

The weird feeling was still there and the chill in my spine returned.  I decided I needed a cold beer.  As I was getting out of my camper, the "car" that had been following me out in the desert went by and stopped in front of the small grocery store about a block away.

Two people, a man and woman, got out. They did not look my way but went straight inside the store. I had a strange feeling and another cold shudder ran down my back.  I shrugged my shoulders and went into the cantina.

Maggie, the bar maid said, "Senor, Why do you return?" "We thought you were going back to California." "Did you miss me already?" "Oh Maggie," I replied. "I missed you before I was out of town. "How about getting me a cold cerveza?" "Si senor Johnny," she replied.

I was drinking the cold beer at the bar thinking that I must be crazy when the couple walked in and took a table near the door. The man had long greasy hair and long greasy sideburns. He had tattoos on every part of his body that I could see. He even had the ugly "LOVE" & "HATE" tattoos on his fingers. He was in his mid forties and had a pot belly. He was approximately 6 feet tall. I couldn't see his eyes in the dim cantina. The girl was a brunette about 5 foot 5 inches tall and a little on the dumpy side. She may have been pretty at one time but now it was obvious that a hard life had caught up with her. They were both chain smokers.

They both ordered bottled beer. They were trying not to be obvious but they were eyeing me. That wasn't too hard to figure out.

I became painfully aware that I was the reason they were there. I made no bones about staring at them. They were hunting and I was their quarry. The problem was I didn't know why or how serious it was. I ordered another cerveza and had it about half gone when the sheriff came in. He sat on the stool beside me and said "Maggie sent for me". "She seems to think you may be in trouble." "I don't know," I replied. "That couple seems to be very interested in me and I don't know why." "They were following me out on the desert so I got a little edgy and decided to come back. They followed me into town."  He replied, "That's interesting because they left town right after you did." "I noticed that they came back right after you so I had their plates ran. My deputy's over at the office waiting for an answer. When Maggie called I thought it would be better for me to wait here."

"Thanks," I said. "I was beginning to get a little nervous." The couple paid for their beers and left. The sheriff and I waited for the deputy but I didn't order another beer. I still wanted to head for home but this time when I left I was going to drive straight through and only stop for gas. The deputy came in with the results of the inquiry on the couple. The information was only about him. He was tied in with the same gang as the two creeps that had raped and killed the nun. The gang believed I was responsible for getting those creeps arrested.

"You know my friend," the sheriff said. "I think they want to harm you for getting their friends arrested. "Great," I replied. "Now what do I do?" "Well I cannot arrest them until they kill you or at least try to kill you," he smiled." "Thanks a hell of a lot," I groaned. "However, he replied, I can arrange to hold them for 48 hours while you quietly leave town."

He motioned and his deputy left. I waited a few minutes and went out to my camper. The sheriff followed me out and we shook hands. As I was walking to my camper I saw three deputies hand cuffing the weird couple.

I left Sinalejo for the second time and I hoped the last. As I was driving home I made plans to go all the way to Canada and stay there for a few years. I hope they won't be able to find me up there.

The Process

Stan’s piece “Spilled Tea” inspired me to share some of my creative process with the group. Wouldn’t it be helpful if we all shared our little writing secrets?


The Process
By Connie Wolf
9:00am
I sit at my desk, notebook, pens and computer at the ready. I scribble a title or an opening sentence. I cross it out; I draw a flower in the margin of my now, desecrated page. I have a prompt at the ready or maybe, on rare occasion, an original idea and even a vague notion of where I want to go with it. I’ve set aside the time, I’m dressed in my most comfortable sloppy non binding clothes. I’ve had my morning coffee, took my morning pills and brushed my teeth. What’s there to stop me? Let the creative process begin! Dun to Dun…….Dun to Dun……Charge! I sing to myself.
9:15am I think, maybe I’ll look up some quotes up on the internet, something I can copy, respectfully attributed, kind of a kick start. No! I tell myself, you’ve done that entirely too much lately they will have to re-name your column, rather than “Connie’s Corner”, they can name it “Connie’s pithy quote of the month” or “Stuff I Wish I had Written” or “Ramblings from a Vacuous Mind” I like that word vacuous, I’m going find a way to work it into my piece. What piece? I haven’t written a word. I need to put pen to paper and write for twenty minutes without stopping, it works in class it should work here but first I’ll warm up my coffee and use the bathroom, wouldn’t want natures call interrupting my creative flow.
9:30am On my way back to my desk, I take a sudden interest in the disarray in my kitchen, the dish towel was not hung up and the potholders are all askew, I straighten them and look out the kitchen window, it looks like my neighbor Jan put some new piece of pottery in her flower bed, for someone on a fixed income she certainly spends a lot on statuary, it does look nice though, she keeps it so neat and tidy. What am I doing! What am I thinking; I’m going back to my desk and get started right now! I pass a pile of junk mail on the corner of my desk. I’ll just sort through this and throw it away. Look at that waste basket! It’s full again, over flowing, I have to empty it and replace the liner; I can’t just leave it like this.
9:45am Back at my desk, I doddle some more, a daisy, an eye with a single tear drop. How pitiful is that? I’ve been doodling all my life and I’ve shown no improvement at all, I doodle the same way now as I did in the fourth grade, If I would write as much as I doodle I could have completed a trilogy by now. Why are so many works written as series now? It’s gimmicky and I don’t like it, I mean if I don’t discover an author until they are seven books into a series I’ll never find all the volumes and if I do, I can’t afford that many at one time anyway. Well, Lord of the Rings and the Chronicles of Narnia were series and I can hardly fault them. Enough of this mind wandering foolishness; I must get back to the matter at hand. Maybe I’ll forgo paper and pencil and compose on the computer instead. No more doodling for me!
10:00am Sitting before me is a nice clean word document, I’ll start with my name and the date, Amy says we should always put our name and the date on our piece; we need to own our work. You know what? I am really bored with Times New Roman and Arial I need a new font, something to give real life to my piece, maybe Papyrus in Plum or Gungsuh in sky blue……. What exactly is a “wingding” font? I have a variety of wingding fonts none of which consists of letters. What are they used for? I’ll Goggle it; it’ll only take a moment. Well, according to Wikipedia they were invented by Microsoft for Windows 3.1, they were developed in 1990 but it doesn’t say what it’s used for. On Answers @ yahoo.com they say they are just used for decoration, you would have to print out a chart of all the symbols and then use them to make a line of smiley faces or something. Well that sounds like a waste of time, speaking of which, I better get back to my writing. An opening sentence might be just the thing. How about, “I try not to think about it but my mind often returns to the visceral memory of……..” Oh I’m not sure if I used the word “visceral” correctly, I better right mouse click it and read its definition, you know what I like? I like the way you can right click on a word and find all those synonyms for a word that is so cool! I mean, if I use the same word three times or maybe more I am being redundant, right mouse click and Voila! Of course it might be more authentically creative to come up with my own words but, on the other hand, there is much to say in favor of modern technology, I mean William Shakespeare probably wrote with a pen and quill but I’m certainly not going to do that, am I? I wonder if he did, write with a pen and quill I mean maybe I should look that up. No, I won’t, I need to get down to it right now. Let’s see, where was I? Yes, “visceral memory” oh there’s that melodic little chime, I have an email, I’ll just take a quick peek and see who it’s from, I’ll be back in a sec.
10:30am It was just an advertisement but it had a two for one coupon in it, so I printed it out. A penny saved is a penny earned I always say. Yeah I always say it but Ben Franklin wrote it and I better start writing something for myself. Was it Ben Franklin? I’m going to look that up. Yes, it was Ben Franklin, it sounds like old Ben doesn’t it? Another email, this one was from the vacations-to-go newsletter, that volcano in Iceland sure has played havoc with global travel hasn’t it? Well I’ve put down my email program so no more interruptions from there but now I’m thirsty, I’ve had enough coffee for today, think I’ll switch to diet Pepsi, of course it contains just as much caffeine and a bunch of sodium to boot. It also tastes good and I’m going to get one. On my way back to the desk I glance out the window and notice the wind has really picked up today, it’s only 62 degrees out and it’s almost 11:00. Almost 11:00, no wonder I feel hungry, I skipped breakfast, and besides I’ve been at this for two hours, I need a break. Then this afternoon I needed to do a bit of shopping so I better jump in the shower after I eat. I don’t know how I ever got anything done before I retired, the days speed by so fast. Oh well, tomorrow’s another day. I’ll write tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’ll brook no distractions, I’ll display stellar self discipline, I’ll try some of Jon’s Yoga exercises, to clear my mind and invite the muse. Tomorrow, I’ll write tomorrow.


April 21, 2010

SPILLED TEA

Time and how it affects writing is a curious concept for me. Everyone I know wastes time. We all procrastinate and bemoan the fact that we do. I question whether it is really procrastination or the uncrossing of the mind? There is probably some mathematical formula that will predict or tell if we are procrastinating or clearing cobwebs but I have no idea what it is. I choose to believe that no matter how long the time period is between one word and another I am not procrastinating. I am clearing cobwebs or as I call it, I am “uncrossing my mind”

I work cross word puzzles and frequently when I am stumped I will put the puzzle aside and go back to it the next day or even longer. I am always amazed that in many of the puzzles I am able to solve them after my mind has had a rest from them. Has my mind worked while I am asleep or does a fresh mind take a different look at the problem? I know when I write something if I go back and read it over I always change it. My mind seems to look at it in a different way? Has a short period of time made that much difference? Is that really the right thing to do? I am told that often the best writing we do is in the first draft.

Is time the “grim reaper” to a writer?

Time and mind seem to run on the same track or at least along side of each other. When the semaphore of knowledge like the semaphore on a train track rises, the mind is in a certain speed and time zone. When that same semaphore closes time continues but does the mind follow or does it wait and get on another train at some future date? When time continues without the mind does the knowledge go on or does the mind wait in some nebulous location waiting to be restarted?

When I’m writing a story, sometimes the words flow and the mind is working on however many cylinders it takes to make it work. Time seems to stop and not exist. But when the semaphore closes and the mind loses continuity or blows a gasket and the words do not come, then time seems to be a clock in your brain.

Maybe your brain turns into a clock and your mind becomes like the “mad hatter” running around, spilling tea while your mouth mimics the words, “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date.” The words, “writer’s block” spill from our mouths like the “mad hatters” spilled tea. We stare at the paper or the computer knowing that the clock is ticking. The big hand is visible inside your brain. There is a deadline looming. Your mind becomes confused about what it is supposed to do.

I think the mind turns off like a computer and needs to be rebooted. A long walk or a nights rest or a good hot showers are ways that I use to reboot my mind and get it creating words again. That’s what seems to work for me.

Often I will think about the direction of my article and not write anything about it. I will write about some part of my life. Then I will start writing anything that comes to mind about my project. If nothing seems to flow I will put it aside until the next day and try again. Sometimes this works really good and I write something that I am really excited about. However, often I end up in the “mad hatter” state writing an article with the spilled tea stains and it turns out to be a disaster.

I try to use those “mad hatter” articles as learning tools. I hope it is working. “Only time will tell”. What time does the train leave? I have a very important date with the “Mad hatter”.

S. Beatty/April 2010

The View From Over My Shoulder

It’s been a full month since I’ve written a word, not an entry in my journal and no idea what I’ll write for my column in the Hawker. Nothing more interesting than a grocery list has come from my pen. It once was a lazy malaise, it became self doubt and now it looms as an oppressive fear. Can I write again? Am I even capable of putting words on paper, words that will make you laugh or even smile? I don’t know but I do know that I am not laughing much myself these days. I probably can’t ask you to join me in the laughter when, truth be told, I have lost my smile. To be perfectly honest, the only thing that comes easy to me is aging. With everything else, there has always been effort counter-balanced with a profound love of inertia. Particularly difficult in my life is anything that requires balance, coordination, physical strength or even the smallest measure of grace. When I was six I went to a Saturday morning ballet class and at the end of the term there was a dance recital. My father, an avid amateur photographer, snapped picture after picture of the event. In each picture I was on the wrong foot. The line of little tutu clad girls had their right foot forward, I had my left. They turned clockwise, I turned counter clockwise. There it was, captured in black and white, frozen as eternal evidence of my lack of grace. The other girls’ faced the audience with their eyes raised angelically heavenward while I with my back to the audience looked over my shoulder trying to figure out what went wrong. I heard the audience titter, I knew they were laughing at me. As the pictures of my recital were passed around at family gatherings, I was laughed at and hugged in merriment by aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. I was a roaring success as a comic if not a ballerina. This is who I was, this is who I am. I will continue writing; continue sharing the view from over my shoulder. I will figure out what went wrong and I will find my smile. After all, it is impossible to smile on the outside without feeling a bit better on the inside and I am more than ready to do that.

The decade of loss

The first decade of the 21st century was not good for me. It was not a good decade for me because it stole my dreams. It stole from me the right to spend some free time with my brother Richard and my sister Kaye.

The first decade of the 2000’s was not supposed to be the end of their lives. It was not supposed to take their lives. I had plans for them and in order to complete those plans they had to continue to live. But they didn’t. The decade took them away from me.

The first was my sister. She was the eldest of the four children raised by mother and father. She was always there for me. She was there for me when I was five and she was there for me when I was thirty-five and again when I was 65. I had always had plans to go on cruises with her when I retired. She loved to go on cruises. The trouble was that I didn’t get to retire before the decade took her. When the decade took her it took my plans and dreams with her. I never got to make that trip with her.

Next the damned decade came and stole my brother. He was the second oldest and I was the youngest but there was only three years differences in our ages. We were supposed to go hunting and fishing again just like when we were kids. We were supposed to sit on a porch and drink whatever we damned well pleased. We were supposed to sit on a porch and swap lies. We were supposed to sit on a porch and dream about a future that would be all too short. We were supposed to ride the range again with an old broken down jeep and talk about our dad and how great he was. We were supposed to laugh and giggle about our dad’s old pink and black truck. We were supposed to talk about mom and how he kicked my butt when I sassed her. We were supposed to talk about the days he worked at Stanford University and how he got me a job there. We were supposed to laugh about Tony Ferlito and the girl’s dorm. We were supposed to remember how Tony grabbed the hot electric wire when the naked coed walked by. We were supposed to remember how grabbing the hot wire knocked him off the ladder while he was telling the naked coed her naked body¬¬ didn’t bother him.

We were supposed to grow old together. We had all of these things to do and all of these things to talk about and that damned decade took that from us. That damned decade stole my brother.

Now all I have are the memories and what great memories they are.

Stan Beatty/April 2010

Reed’s Billiards Part 2

Mr. Chips

After two weeks of working Thursday and Friday nights with Bubba and Saturdays with Both Reed and Bubba, I was given my own shift and regular hours. I worked 4 to 7 Monday through Thursday and 4 til closing on Friday and  12 to 8 P.M. on Saturday.

The man I called Mr. Chips walked through the swinging doors at 12 o'clock noon on my first Saturday. I had just clocked in and it was very busy. At first I didn't pay any attention to him because I was busy at the far end of the bar setting a couple of guys up with a pool table. Bubba was rolling the dice for beer. Mr. Chips sat on the stool nearest the door. I didn't see him until I walked the bar to see if anyone was dry.

When I saw him the first thing I thought was that he did not belong there. He wasn't the same type of individual as the other patrons. Our normal clientele were farmers, constriction workers, steel workers from the mill and Indians. He was none of those. He was from a more gentle background. My first thought was that he was from the college and I had been caught serving beer and what was much worse smoking a cigarette. Smoking and drinking could get you expelled from Brigham Young University. Brigham Young is a Mormon school. A good Mormon does not drink alcohol and does not smoke.

At first glance he had a very distinguished look. A mane of dashing gray curly hair erupted from his head. It looked like it was groomed and it looked like it had never been combed. His nose had the pinch marks of glasses but I never saw him wear glasses. I assumed he wore glasses when he read. He looked like he had been a handsome man in his earlier life. but now as I got closer I noticed his face was a little puffy and a little red. He seemed to have a 2 or 3 day beard growth. He was dressed in a suit with a vest but he did not have a tie. The jacket was worn on the end of the sleeves. I realized that he may have been a college professor at one point in his life but I was sure he wasn't at that point. He ordered a draft beer and did not bother with any small talk.

I never gave him much thought. He ordered one draft after another until about 4 o'clock. When I went to his end of the bar he ordered another draft but his words were slurred and I decided he had enough. I told him he was done. I wouldn't serve him more beer. He had a hurt look on his face but he didn't get mad. I asked if he was driving and he said no. I asked if he had a ride and he said no that he was walking. He stood up and walked out the door. He didn't stumble or teeter like a drunk. He actually held his head high and seemed to walk with a strut. He made me feel like he wasn't drunk. He walked out like a man that was indignant because he had been insulted.

He still puzzled me. I meant to ask Bubba about him but we were busy and after Mr. Chips walked out door I never gave him a second thought until he walked in again one week later.

He was dressed exactly the same. His hair looked exactly the same. His nose had the same eyeglass marks. He wasn't wearing glassed when he came in. He sat on the same stool and the only thing he said as he laid a $10.00 bill on the counter was, "I'll have a draft and keep them coming until that's gone. He said the words clearly with a strong deep voice and I thought that he must have been a public speaker at one time. The voice almost had a song attached to it. I wondered if he had been an actor at one time.

I tried to get a conversation going by asking him how he was. He looked my way but I don't believe he really even saw me. He never responded. He looked at the beer without touching it for a long time. I wasn't very busy so I just watched him. Finally he picked up the beer and seemed to down it in one gulp. Dam, I thought, he could give my cousin Nell Ann a race. I'd seen Nell Ann swallow a whole pitcher without taking a breath. She was one broad you didn't want to try and out drink but I was wondering if this guy wouldn't give her a real good race. "Another", he said. He put that one away almost before I put it down in front of him. "Again", he said. He wanted another before I could get his money into the register for the last two he guzzled. He had five before he slowed down. Then he drank steady not sipping but not guzzling either. In two hours his ten bucks was gone. He ordered another. His voice was still strong. I asked him if he was driving and he said no. I gave him another beer. He never offered to pay and he sipped this beer. He took a long time to finish that beer and ordered another. I asked him to pay for the last one. He looked at me like he wanted to kill me and tears dropped from his eyes. He stood up and tried to back away from the bar but his foot caught on the bar stool and he fell flat on his butt. Two guys went over and helped him up. He gave me another dirty look and stumbled his way through the swinging doors. I went around the bar and followed him out the door. He was walking north with his hands making gestures in the air. I watched until he turned left onto the first street he came to.

I had really misjudged how drunk he was. I was worried about him so when I went back inside I made a point of asking Bubba what the deal was with my "Mr. Chips". Bubba simply said, "He's just an old drunk". "He comes around for a few days, sometimes a week, sometimes he will come almost every day for a couple of weeks and then he disappears for awhile." "Ask Reed, he knows about him." "Reed told me to treat him good but I can't stand the old drunk". "I was glad that you had to deal with him."

That was my first lesson on the care of bar drunks. I learned that when you have worked the bars for awhile, "drunks" do not create a hell of a lot of sympathy. They create a lot of trouble and no one wants to hear their tales of woe. I did not ask Bubba about his feelings. I had some interest in "Mr. Chip's" story but I couldn't create a lot of empathy for him. He reminded me of the drunks that hung around with my brother. I made a mental note to ask Reed about "Mr. Chips".

When I got to work on Monday, "Mr. Chips" was there. He was so drunk he couldn't sit on the stool. He was holding on to the bar so he wouldn't fall down. Reed was across the bar and there was a man in suite trying to help him stay on his feet. "Come on John", he said. "Let me help you home". Reed backed him up, "John you have had enough, go on home with the bishop."

John (my Mr. Chips") would have none of the bishop's help. "Get away from me" he slurred. "You get out and take your lousy God with you". Then his words became clear and his voice became strong as if he had never had a drink. "You take your god damned God and shove him up your ass. I want nothing to do with you people. You and your God can stay the hell out of my life. Stay the hell away for Lois to". "Now John", the bishop said. "God was not responsible for your son's death." Jerry's death was an accident."

"Mr. Chips" face grew red with anger. The veins in his neck looked like they could burst at any moment. He clenched his fist and shook it in the face of the bishop. Then he grabbed the bishop by his neck tie and pulled the bishop's face to within inches of his own and said in a very low but clear menacing voice, "I gave my life to that fucking God of yours. I lived as I was taught and what did that pompous bastard do for me? "He let my son die. He let my only son die. I have no one else. I have no grandchildren. Your lousy no good fucking God left me with nothing. I gave my life to him and he took my son. Well you get this straight; Mr. fucking Bishop, there is no God. There is no God now and there never has been a God." Then he fell to his knees and cried like a baby. "I want my son back. I want my son back. I want my son back", he wailed.

At that point his wife walked in and found him curled up the floor of the bar in a fetal position, sobbing like a baby. "Come on John" she said in a low loving voice. "Let me take you home". The bishop helped her get "Mr. Chips" to his feet and they got him into her car and she drove him home.

Reed had tears in his eyes as they went out the door. I never had to ask Reed about "Mr. Chips". I learned his story the hard way. I also learned that having compassion for drunks is not a bad thing.

The Tuesday Provo Herald announced on the first page of the second section the following:

"A once prominent Brigham Young University Professor committed suicide last night or early this morning. Professor Jonathon E. Williamson was found hanging from the rafters in his garage early this morning by his wife Lois Johnson Williamson…………"

Bubba said good riddance. I never liked Bubba much after that.

Stuff I've Been Reading

Stuff I’ve Been Reading By Connie Wolf

The novelist, Nick Hornsby (whom I love) writes a column for a British publication with this very title. He lists first the books he bought and then the books that he actually read. I shall attempt the same, imitation being the greatest form of flattery.
I have a pile of books that I received as Christmas gifts (leaving nothing to chance I gave my husband and daughter a lengthy wish list of book titles). In addition I listen to books on CD in my car and on my mp3 player when I iron or go for walks. Actually, I haven’t done any ironing or walking in recent weeks as I’ve been working my way through my book stack. All of these books had glowing reviews on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and Bookshelf.com. I was certain I would love them all.
My first category is: Started but Didn’t Finish

1. Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs

A memoir and runaway best seller, I expected humor, I will quote a reviewer from Publisher’s Weekly, “this book is both compulsively entertaining and tremendously provocative”. Oh really? This is a true story? Can any childhood be THIS dysfunctional? Can any family be THIS mentally unbalanced? Must a child’s first sexual encounter with an adult be described in THIS much detail? Surely not. I couldn’t finish it, I will not finish it, I chose not to finish it.

2. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides

As soon as I read that this book is both a Pulitzer Prize winner and an Oprah Book Club selection I should have known I’d never finish it. Who am I kidding? I read until page 134, it took me weeks to get that far and that was only a little over 1/5 of the book. This is a novel about Greek immigrants, a brother and sister who married (each other) had children who married first cousins and apparently produced a hermaphrodite due to a mutated gene. Not all that unusual, apparently, when siblings mate. Why do I even start books like this and the fore mentioned “Running with Scissors”? I am at once repulsed and fascinated by the unspeakable subjects but never quite enough to finish what I start. What does that say about me? I have sick fascinations without the self discipline to finish what I begin. It’s hard to say which trait I am the most ashamed of.

Books I Have Actually Finished

1. About a Boy by Nick Hornsby

Now, this is more like it. The book is a fast, funny read. I saw the film so I kept hearing Hugh Grants voice as I read. I intend to read many more of Nick Hornsby’s novels; I could care less if he ever wins a Pulitzer Prize. Let’s hear it for humor and escapism. Loved it!

2.The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo by Stieg Larsson

This book was translated from the Swedish, wasn’t sure if that would work for me but I liked it. It was suspenseful and had one fascinating character, Lisbeth Salander; she made the book for me. On the downside, it the first in a trilogy so all my questions about Lisbeth went unanswered. I read 590 pages and didn’t learn much more about her than I knew in the first 100 pages. I felt cheated.

3. The Wife’s Tale by Lori Lansens

Confession time, I bought this book because it had a “plus-sized” heroine. I thought I would completely identify with her but no, not completely. My heart went out to her when she overheard the family doctor say she was obese when she was just a child. She thought he said she had an “O-Beast”, she figured that was what was causing the gnawing hunger that she could never satisfy. I understood that, some times I think I have an “O-Beast” too. However, I was completely grossed out and I didn’t identify when she began eating dirt and earthworms the summer before her senior year in high school. She found that she could eat anything she wanted and still lose weight with constant diarrhea. She continued the practice until she met her future husband, the schools star athlete and got promptly pregnant and married.
On the plus side, an unfortunate choice of words I guess, the writing was good, the action moved swiftly but Mary Gooch was nothing short of pathetic. Still, I wish her well and would welcome a sequel. Mary and I had kind of a love-hate relationship.

4. The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton

This was a mystery with the feel of a fairy tale. My very first favorite chapter book in life was “A Secret Garden” by Frances Hodgson Burnett, this is kind of a more grown up version of that. It starts with a tiny girl abandoned on a ship heading to Australia in 1913. She arrives completely alone with nothing but a small suitcase containing a few clothes and a single book, a beautiful volume of fairy tales. The Forgotten Garden is long, and it switches back in forth in time and place so when I put it down for a few days, I got a bit lost. It should be read at a time of leisure, during convalescence or maybe on a cruise or a beach vacation. It would go well in rehab and or prison libraries.

5. The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

This book was translated from the French and has won gobs of cultural prizes so you won’t be surprised to hear me say; I had a bit of a problem getting into it. However, I am admittedly a sucker for coming of age stories and it is that and more. There are actually two heroines in this book. Renée Michel is the dumpy, nondescript, 54-year-old concierge of a small and exclusive Paris apartment building. Paloma Josse, the other, is an introspective 12 year old who views the world as absurd and records these views in her journal. These two heroines have something in common, they are both inordinately intelligent and they both go to great lengths to hide that fact. It was a slow read for me but I think that’s as it should be, this book should be read slowly. A very surprising ending, left me feeling a bit off balance, also, perhaps, as it should be.

The Saga of Reed’s Billiards by Stan

The FNG
 
I was discharged from the Air Force in the spring of 1965.  I spent three and a half years in the Air Force as an enlisted man.  My service time was fairly easy and at the same time miserable.  I had good duty.  I was not involved in any wars.  My duty was easy but I hated being the low man on the pole.  I hated not being able to go and do what I pleased.  Even though I had never quit a job in my life I hated the fact that I could not quit.  I did not want to quit but the fact that I had lost that little bit of freedom bugged the hell out of me.
 
It was obvious that if I wanted to be somebody and not always be tied to something that I did not like I needed to get an education.  So, at the age of twenty-six, I swallowed my pride and went back to my parents home so I could attend college.
 
I grew up in Orem, Utah and that's where I returned to.  Orem is just up the street from Provo, Utah and Provo is where Brigham Young University is located.  I entered Brigham Young University in the summer of 1965.  I received aid from the government in the form of the GI Bill.  I guess it really wasn't aid because I worked for the Government for three and a half years to earn that money.
 
However, even with the GI Bill and free rent from my parents I still needed some additional income.  I applied for and got a job at Reed's Billiards.  My first day on the job is where this saga begins.  It is a saga of three years behind the bar.  It is a saga of dealing with drunks.  It is a saga of hiding my job from the University.  It is the saga of a beer bar, a pool hall and a young man getting an education about life while he was also getting an education from the books.  It is the saga of Reed's Billiards and me.

My first night on the job was not my first night at Reed's. I had spent a lot of nights and Saturdays at Reed's Billiards shooting pool and drinking beer. I did not spend any Sundays at Reed's because of the Utah Liquor Laws. Bars in Utah were not allowed to be open on Sunday.

At exactly 3:30 P.M. on the first Saturday in August 1965, 30 minutes before my shift was to begin, I pushed the traditional bat wing doors open to view friends, the bar, the smell of beer and the reek of tobacco smoke. On the right there was a small counter that contained hunting and fishing items.  There were a few fishing reels, a few knives, a couple of hand guns and some ammunition.  Reed's was also a small sporting good store that catered to hunting and fishing.  Behind the counter was an assortment of rifles and fishing gear.  Reed was also licensed to sell fishing and hunting licenses.  Just past the hunting counter there was a long bar with a red counter top. Standing in front of the bar there were 20 bar stools covered in red vinyl. Attached to the bottom of the bar one foot from the floor was a round metal foot rail.

There were twelve men sitting on the stools, drinking beer, eating steamed beer franks with horse radish and talking about what men talk about. There were no women. Reed's Billiards was a Man's bar. Women were allowed in but Reed frowned on them being there. He had decided many years earlier that women, men and alcohol was a perfect formula for trouble. Also, there was only one restroom and that one restroom had a urinal, an open toilet and no lock. If a woman were to use the restroom she had to get someone to guard the door. I do not believe there were a lot of women that would have felt comfortable at Reed's.

On the left was a long green wall with two pin ball machines centered between the door and the pool tables that decorated a big room that opened up at the end of the bar. Two men pushed and jiggled the pin ball machines trying to get the balls to drop in the holes they desired. There was a Juke Box playing country music pushed up against the green wall right where the bar ended and the pool room began. Reed, the owner and Big Bubba, his main bar tender were behind the bar pouring beer and serving steamed beer franks with horse radish.

Reed was in his sixties and had owned the bar for 30 years. He had made his bar a profitable operation. Having a profitable beer bar was not an easy thing to do in a Mormon state with very strict alcohol rules and the majority of the population anti-alcohol and tobacco. Reed poured the beer with a cripple left arm that he had sustained in a car accident. I was told that he had been "one hell of a good" auto mechanic before the accident. With his maimed arm he could no longer work on cars so he took the money he received because of the accident and opened "Reed's Billiards". He worked the bar all alone for twenty years. He would get there at 7 A.M., clean the bar, vacuum the pool tables, order his needed supplies, take care of his books and be ready to open at 10A.M. He would serve the beer. He would rent the tables. And take care of any trouble with the sawed off pool cue he kept behind the bar. He would close his bar at 12 midnight and go home to rest up for the next day. On Sunday according to God's law imposed by the state of Utah, he rested. In reality he never rested. He would go in on Sundays and give his bar a thorough cleaning. He tended to his pool tables like they were his children. The quickest way to get ejected by Reed holding his sawed off pool cue was to sit on one of his tables or put a beer on one. There were no second chances. If he caught you breaking the "rules" you were done for the night.

Big Bubba or Bubba's real name was Jerry. He was 6 feet 6 inches and walked on bad feet. He was unblessed with some kind of ingrown warts in his heels. He said he was going to have them removed but never seemed to get the job done. He couldn't afford to pay for it and didn't have any insurance to cover bad feet. He would hobble up and down behind the bar with a big grin on his chubby face, serve beer and holler "skin-er-back" when the next game card was sold out. The game cards were illegal but Reed got away with using them for gambling by advertising the winners got a stuffed animals. The winners got half of the take and Reed got the other half. The both got $25.00. It was a popular game and Reed's usually sold 3 or 4 cards a night and 8 to 10 on Saturdays. Bubba also loved to shake the dice with customers for the price of a beer. The customers loved to shake the dice with Bubba for the price of beer. A draft beer cost 4 bits (50 cents) so the stakes weren't that big. It was fun to play "Ship, Captain and crew" for the price of a beer. The dice were the same for both sides so the game was equal and over the long haul Reed came out even on the money side. However, Reed was way ahead by having the dice available. Men need something to do for fun and Reed understood that better than most. Bubba's short stubby fingers would flop the cup and the dice would roll. I have a ship he would say and then someone from the other end of the bar would yell, "Hey Bubba, hit me again." Bubba would hobble to the other end of the bar with a fresh beer.

Bubba looked up from the dice game he had going and saw me walking in. "Hey guys", he yelled. "Meet the Fucking New Guy". "He's going to work here" "Take it easy on him". A customer in the middle of the bar yelled, "Hey FNG bring me a draft." I poured my first beer before I was officially on the clock. Reed liked that. "Not too much head," he said.

Even though I knew everyone in the bar and even though I had known most of them all my life and even though they all knew my name was Stan, whenever I was behind the bar I was the FNG. However, it wasn't long before I was just called "Fang".