Into Tales Untold free porn video

You are about to begin reading the new story by Jan S, "Into Tales Untold". Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door. Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!" Raise your voice... --Umm, while you do that, I need to talk to someone. What are you doing!? Huh? Who are you talking to? Go back. This opening comes straight from Italo Calvino! So? It's a great way to start a story, isn't it? I like it anyway. It's plagiarism is what it is. I'll have nothing to do with it. Lighten up. I think I'm covered by fair use; at least I am now that I've attributed it. Besides, it has nothing to do with you. All you have to do is tell the story the way that you're told to. Alright - whatever. ~mine's not to reason why....~ OK, I'm back. ... Or perhaps you live alone, well it occasionally has some small advantages; this is one, but make sure your pets -- I hope there is something warm in your house -- are well fed and well walked and ready to settle down for a while. Find your most comfortable position. Adjust your screen if it needs it or, if you made a dead tree copy, get the pages stacked just right. Take your shoes off and put you feet up, or not; lean back, or lean forward; do whatever is best for you. Get ready. You know this is an unusual story already.... --Boy - no kidding! - I'll be right back again. I've noticed a problem. Come on; just tell the story! I will, but when I'm talking, you keep forgetting to use quotation marks. You're always talking. That is what you do. I can't give you quotation marks; it would defeat their purpose. You know what I mean - when I'm talking to you. You need to make it clear. The readers will just find it confusing. Have some respect for my readers; they'll figure it out. Quotation marks are reserved for the characters. I'm not dis-ing the readers, but they will just go elsewhere if you make it too hard, and you know it. Maybe you could separate these discussions with some little stars or use those little squiggly lines or something for my speeches. I already started using the tilde to show implicit thoughts, and I was planning to use asterisks to separate different parts of the story. What makes you think I'm going to let you come back anyway? Look. We have probably lost some readers in less than five hundred words. Why don't we start with the actual story and get them into it before you do all this weird stuff? If I wait too long to do these things, it might surprise the readers; I'm afraid of causing literary whiplash. See, you are planning more of these discussions. And you put your words into italics; I should be set off somehow. OK, fine. I'll give you your stars. Now, will you tell the story? Sure. ***** Back again. ...You have no idea what to expect next. In a way, you like it like this. You take a big gulp of air and decide not to hit the button and go back to the home page just yet. You will take the risk and read on just to see what happens. Our story begins (~At last!~) when Jerry's sister pulled off his hat, and his dark red hair fell to his shoulders. She ran into the parking lot, and Jerry chased her between and around the cars. At one point, he almost ran into a guy who had just gotten out of an old Chevy hooked to a small trailer. It was some semi-giant jock who scanned him up and down. Jerry sped up to get away from the guy and wondered whether the jock thought he was a girl too. Jessie made two laps around their parents' cars before she let Jerry trap her between his arms. Then she yelled out, "Let me go, Miss." Jerry dropped his arms and his eyes and said, "Just drop it, please, Jess." He meant the joke about the clerk in the store who had thought he was girl, not the hat. Their father followed them and said, "Cut it out. You two still act like little kids. If you would get your damn hair cut, you wouldn't have that problem, Jeremy. Let's get on the road." "Jerry, why don't you drive the van for the next leg?" their mother said from behind the man. "Sure," Jerry said. "Can I ride with Jerry?" Jessie asked. "No," both parents answered, one of the few times they did something together. "But I haven't had a chance to ride with him, and he's going away," Jessie said in one of her better fake pouts. "He's just going to college not the gulag. He can get phone calls and IMs and everything," her mother said. "What's a gulag?" Jessie asked her brother in a semi-whisper. Jerry still remembered his SAT flash cards and said, "A prison or place of exile, usually one out in the wilderness." "The wilderness part is sure covered," Jessie said. "This is where they put the colleges your brother can get into," their father said. "It isn't that far from some big cities, and it is a very good school with some excellent programs," their mother said. Their father thought his point had been made, again, and didn't stress it. He said, "Why don't you three ride together for a while? I've got to make some calls anyway." He didn't have all that many calls to make, but he wanted to listen to his audio versions of The Art of Closing; he believed no one could ever hear it too often, but unfortunately his children didn't agree. He was also aware that time together did not help his relationship with them. Jerry and his mother started moving boxes to make room on the back seat of the old minivan, and Jessie climbed into the front. Their father walked to his almost new Mercedes and yelled to Jerry, "Stay behind me, Jeremy. I don't want you speeding." "Sure thing," Jerry said, but he thought, ~I'll be way behind you if I don't speed and change lanes every five seconds~. The Mercedes took off before Jerry had finished moving boxes around, and his father was sifting through his cell phone's directory as he merged with the highway traffic. Once the others were settled in the van, Jerry pulled out at a slower pace. You are left alone in the parking lot. It is divided by a long concrete barrier, so that cars must stay on the side they entered. The building in the center of the lot is both ubiquitous and unique: designed to fill a single function and exactly reproduced far too often. The facades of these buildings sometimes change, perhaps dependant upon the cost of material at the time they were built, but the environment they create never varies. Once inside the building you are in a very large room with a number of bolted-down plastic and metal tables and chairs. A long stainless steel counter runs almost the whole length of one side of the room. The menus of four fast food franchises are displayed behind it. It looks much like the food court of many malls, but the area behind the counter is not divided. On the opposite side of the room is another counter, selling brand name popcorn, pretzels and coffee, and a gift shop with displays of postcards and all the things that seem to exist only in roadside stores. Beyond the gift shop is another dining room with vinyl cushions glued to the seats, and where the employees bring the food to your table on larger plastic plates and provide thicker paper napkins. Because it is midday in late August, the building is, while not crowded, heavily occupied. Some people sit at the tables in groups but do little talking. Others just stand, or pretend to look at things in the gift shop, or walk back and forth. The people here never make eye contact with each other, not even to the degree they would on a busy city street; nor do they come close to one another; it is as if everyone's personal space had expanded, or as if they were all still encased in cars. This is a world of strangers; the building is not part of any town; there are no locals or regulars; even the counter help has come far to be in this place, and they, like everyone else here, are detached and distant. You have entered a limbo, and whether the destination is a heaven or a hell, the denizens all appear to appreciate, but none to enjoy, the respite from motion. ***** Whoa. Why are you doing all this? Jerry leaves the rest area, and then you spend four hundred words describing it. You're wasting time. Well, just because Jerry left doesn't mean we're going with him right now. If you would go do your job, the readers would know we're following someone else too. Don't you think it would be nice to warn them that you're making a change like that? You've changed the mood and even the tense you were using. Have you gone back to Calvino mode or something? No, but I don't want to use another format tool for the change since I gave you your stars. I think the readers can follow it. Also, I want the feel of the two parts to be very different; that's why I'm risking the change of voice and tense among other things. I was really shooting for a kind of Hardy thing here, where the geography and environment affect the story. But we barely got started with Jerry. Are we going to be jumping back and forth all the time? Yeah, we are going to go from one to the other for a while. Now let's go; I'm writing this for a contest, you know; there is a deadline. OK, you're the decider. ~Sometimes.~ ***** You notice the person Jerry almost ran into in the parking lot coming from the corridor that leads to the rest rooms. Just outside the corridor, he stops and waits for the rest of his family. Since this is fiction and this is the second time you have had your attention drawn to this person, you think he might be important to the story. The writer doesn't seem to object, so you move closer to examine him. You can tell he is in his late teens; you know he is large because Jerry earlier thought of him as a semi-giant; he's dressed in shorts that reach below his knees and an oversized t-shirt with the name of a rock group on it. But the rest of his appearance remains indistinct for now. Perhaps he is only a minor character and his appearance is not important enough to give details, or perhaps he is a major character about whom you must learn things slowly. Employing the magic of fiction, you attempt to look within the person. You discover that he feels he is beginning an adventure and that he is excited by this beginning, but it creates even more anxiety than excitement for him. You become aware that there is much more to him, but either the character or the writer, or perhaps both, have those depths well protected, and you can't enter them yet. His sister and his mother walk up the corridor. They join him to wait for the last member of the party. No one speaks as they form a perfect equilateral triangle, four or five feet to each side; in this place this seems like a perfectly normal way for a family group to stand. The mother is smaller than her daughter, and she is wearing a dress and impeccable makeup. She seems over-dressed for a car trip in this century, and you consider the possibility that she is the kind of person that considers her appearance her best, and possibly her only, asset. Perhaps because she has felt so many emotions in the last few days, she seems to be empty right now. The girl is in her middle teens and is large like her brother, not at all obese, just tall and broad. Her head is somewhat square with strong features, but you don't feel she looks totally unfeminine. She emits an aura of boredom, tinged with slightly more than the usual amount of teenage animosity towards her mother. The father comes out of the hallway and walks past. The others follow; they place their food orders, go to a table, and begin eating, all without exchanging a word with each other. The father is a huge man, over six-three and more than two hundred and fifty pounds; he walks awkwardly, still stiff from the long ride. Once seated he looks at his son and grins; he is full of pride. You realize he is recalling the day his son told him which college he wanted to go to. His child had been in tears because he wanted to turn down a scholarship to run track and cross country at a second division school and go to a more academically challenging school instead. And he had felt bad about the money! Like he would have ever tried to make the money he had if it were not for his family. He wonders if this trip is a bigger event for him than it is for his child. It seems to him Ben, his son, has it all going for him, intelligence, physical strength, not movie star looks, but handsome and, most importantly, he has the heart to share all that he has with others. His son has a gentleness that he admires, and tries to cultivate in himself. But Ben has never seemed happy with himself; he never seemed comfortable around his peers, but he wasn't withdrawn or painfully awkward either. In fact, he took part in sports and high school clubs, often taking on leadership rolls. But the enigmatic - not detachment - separation perhaps, was always there, subtle and elusive. All of these thoughts pass through the father's mind as he mechanically eats his tasteless meal. The thoughts follow one upon the other, never fully formed, but all fully conscious until he realizes the food is gone and thinks, ~Damn it, if I'm going to bust my diet that much, I should at least enjoy it.~ Ben wipes his mouth with a napkin, and his mother speaks the first words at the table, "That's not all you're going to eat is it?" Ben shakes his head and slowly takes another bite of what McDonald's calls a dinner salad. His father gets up from the table because he doesn't want to hear the coming conversation, but with the excuse that he needs to stretch his muscles. As he walks about, bending his back, rolling his neck, stretching his arms and legs, he thinks about Ben's eating problems. Part of that, he believes, is a power struggle between Ben and his mother; the food fights had begun early. Most of it, however, he blames on himself. Two years before Ben was born he had hurt his back; seriously is a relative term in such matters, but he had been bedridden for several months, worn braces and used canes for years, and after too many operations he still had many problems with it. In spite of the doctors and therapists, he had become huge, much bigger than he was now. He thinks it was the fear of being like that which caused Ben's trouble. ~But at least I got a nurse and two fantastic kids out of that injury,~ he thinks. (He met his wife while recovering.) The next time Ben wipes his mouth, he drops the napkin onto his plate. His mother, who has been watching him intently, says, "You need more; you know what the doctors said, Ben." Ben's father gets out his cell phone and moves further away. Ben's sister gets up and goes to see if the Starbucks counter sells real Frappuccinos?. Ben just finished the salad and ate most of the patty and some of the bread from a junior hamburger; it seems sufficient to him. He grimaces, then he continues the established routine by saying, "That was probably a thousand calories, Mother, and I have been sitting all day. It will be fine." "Ben, just take care of your self; you could be big and strong if you would eat right. Bigger and stronger, I mean." These were not new words; even the apparent mistake was made at almost every meal. "I suppose so," Ben says, staring at his Styrofoam dish, "but I think it is enough for one meal." "Benny, I'm not going to be there anymore, you are going to...." "I know, but I have gained weight every month for seventeen months now. I'm doing fine, and I know what I need. Please, not for the last two days, please!" Ben's mother is silent; she admits that he has been doing well, but she still worries; she just can't understand this thing. The doctors were just dumb to talk about body image. How could any boy not like that big, strong body of his? She silently giggles when she adds, ~or any girl either~, to that thought. It was all because of that wrestling coach and because Ben was just too competitive. Eventually she says, "Ben, I know you're doing well now. But you must keep it up! People judge you by what they see. Take care of yourself, and the girls are going to swarm to you! I know I bug you, but I worry, and I want you to be happy. You will always be my son, my little boy, Benny, so you just have to put up with me." In the background you can hear Ben's father saying, "OK, Shelly, send me the SEC comments on Vertex if they come in - I'll be able to check email more often tomorrow - and warn Teresa I want to talk about the Albright audit on Friday; that's all I have for...." He moves away and his voice fades. Ben smiles at his mother and pats her arm. He begins thinking about how these discussions with his mother started, back long before all the doctors. In eighth grade, he had been invited to join the high school wrestling team (He was already large, and the school was small.). It was usually a good idea for the wrestlers to lose a few pounds just before a match so they could fight in a lower class. The coach had not pushed any of the boys; he had told them of various methods and let each pick (or choose none at all); he was only looking for two or three pounds on match days. Ben eventually was using every method, every day. The coach had told them of precautions to take; Ben soon ignored them all. The coach told them of time limits for some methods; Ben kept going longer and longer. The coach told them they were for two or three days just before a big match; Ben did them constantly and continued between seasons. He ate raw vegetables, usually lettuce or spinach, that had been dried on the window sill for hours, and little else, certainly nothing white; he went days and weeks without drinking anything at all; he wrapped towels around his arms and legs and trunk (later he added a layer of plastic wrap), and held them in place with two sweat suits; he stayed that way even when he slept; he sat in the bathroom, dressed like that, with two space heaters on for hours. It had seemed a dream, a door, and then a dungeon, a nightmare. But it hadn't worked. Ben reaches up and rubs an eye. His mother says, "What's the matter, honey? You should be excited." Ben says, "Oh, it isn't anything," and smiles at her. Ben's father is coming closer again, and you hear, "Oh, that guy again. No, it's not open business; he wants to sell me some strip mall investments. Yeah, tell him I'll talk to him on Friday. OK, go home early; no later than seven. -- Kidding. Be out of there by four, and I mean it; don't let Teresa or Adam commandeer you. See you Friday morning." " Ben's sister returns to the table with a frozen blended coffee drink and says, "What isn't anything?" "Nothing." His father closes his phone and says. "What's nothing?" Ben sighs and says, "What Sartre thought about when he got sick of being." His father laughs aloud. His mother smiles because she knows it's a joke. His sister says, "That's nothingness, dope." Ben shrugs because his way had worked and says, "Let's get going. Remember, we've got to be there by five to leave the trailer on campus overnight." They almost reach the car, silent again, before Ben's mother says, "I want to stop by the hotel so you can change before we go to the college." "Lilly, we aren't going to see anyone but the security guard today, and we won't have time." Ben's father says. "We can get the registration packets too, Mac. I just want everyone to look nice just in case." "If we have time," Mac says as he gets into the driver's seat. Ben picks up a laptop once he gets into the front seat (His size has allowed him to displace his mother.). Lilly gets in the back and grabs her magazine and opens it. Ben's sister connects an iPod to her head. Before starting the car, Mac looks through a CD folder and starts to take out Who's Best, but changes his mind and gets American Beauty instead. He starts the CD and pulls out of the parking space. ...It's all a dream we dreamed one afternoon, long ago. - Walk into splintered sunlight, - Inch your way through dead dreams to another land.... The car pulls the trailer onto the turnpike. The passengers all know they are traveling through a rich and abundant farming region, but they have yet to see either a crop or an animal, wild or domestic, near the highway. The world they move through is fallow and abandoned; this long strip has been surrendered to motion and haste. And Ben, like all around him, rushes to be somewhere else. ...Let it be known there is a fountain, - That was not made by the hands of men. - There is a road, no simple highway, - Between the dawn and the dark of night,... ***** OK. I can see why you wanted to lead with the other part. This is ponderous and verbose, and you need a governor on that semicolon key! Well, this is one way to tell a story. I admit it is something of an experiment, but it is how I want to tell this one. I want the two parts to have very different feels. It's not that verbose, just descriptive and serious. ~I hope.~ So, I've got to sound like this half the time? Maybe. All right, but I don't like it. Are we going to do more about Jerry now? I was going to go on with this for a while; I don't want to jump around every time the readers get comfortable. But this isn't even my voice! And I think this style is going to wear people out soon. All right, we can go back to Jerry. I'm not stubborn. Great! Oh, and by the way, it should be 'Whose Best' not 'Who's Best' up there. Look, my friend, don't push it; just let Amelia and me worry about things like that, and you tell the story, OK? All right, all right. ***** As soon as the van was settled into traffic, Jessie launched into her interrogation of Jerry. It was the second day in a row that she hadn't been able to talk to him alone, and she decided her mother was the preferable chaperone; she would let Jerry decide how to disguise and edit the conversation. "'K, tell me what happened!" "What?" "When you saw Linda the other night!" "Jessie, (he briefly tilted his head toward his mother) nothing happened that hasn't happened before. We went and got some sushi, walked around some stores, then went to her house and just talked. That's it." Jessie wasn't sure but thought her brother was claiming it had been at least a heavy petting session. She was right; he hoped she would infer that, but it hadn't been, of course. He and Linda had been friends since second form, and he had never even been a "friend with privileges", although sometimes, but not always, he had told himself he wished he were, but the time had just never seemed right. He certainly never wanted to have a romance - or be involved - with her, or anyone else; that idea was frightening and evoked images of stalkers and burning manor houses. "So no last night together, no big breakup scene, no promises to be true? Too sad," Jessie said. Jerry made the best laughing sound he could and said, "I've told you we are just friends, Jess. Sorry, you need to find a new fantasy." "That's my big bro, all over. Lots and lots of girl Friends. You know Cindy says Linda is gay." "What! Like she would know this how?" "Well, she lives next door to her, duh, and she's seen things. If a straight woman that hangs out with gays is a fag-hag, what's a supposedly straight guy that always hangs with lesbians?" "Knock it off, Jess!" Jerry said raising his voice; she really was going too far. Their mother thought, ~A frustrated dreamer, probably.~ But she said, "Don't spread rumors like that and stop hassling Jerry; it is getting ridiculous. Not every boy that doesn't grope or lunge at every girl he sees is gay, Jessie. Thank God." "Oh, I'm just kidding. I like nice boys too, you know." Their mother asked.... ***** Hey, don't you think it is about time you gave her a name already? And you never gave Ben's sister a name either. Thought about that, but I haven't found a place I want to mention them yet. I'll get to it, and stop breaking in so often, it breaks the flow. Alright, but what's with the "second form" stuff; these are Americans, right? I thought I'd let the Brits and Commonwealthers get a better idea of the ages for once and say that instead of eighth grade. I already made them look up SAT and used old style weights and heights. Seems Jerry's private school uses the old form designations, or pretends to. But you didn't explain any of that in the story, what are the Americans supposed to think? We had the other exposition right then, so I thought I'd clue the Americans in during one of our chats. Oh. ***** ..."Is that 'too', as in 'as well as bad boys', or 'too' as in 'like girls like Linda do'?" "That's for me to know and you to never find out," Jessie said. "Fine, don't you have some reading to finish? You only have a week to get done with your summer list, you know." "Oh, Moooom. It is horrible! And that was just real passive-aggressive too." Jerry laughed and asked, "What are you reading?" "'Frankenstein.'" "Ugh. Yeah, it's bad. When you get to class, just remember that it is about man exceeding his limits and the evils of technology and like that. But I think the real moral is 'ugly is bad.' Try to get Josh Silverman or someone to claim it's anti-Semitic because of the Doctor's name; it's not totally off the wall and will destroy the discussion the teacher had planed." Jessie giggled; she actually liked her brother, he had lots of good advice like that, but the best part was teasing him. Instead of picking up her book, Jessie got her iPod and plugged it into the tiny transmitter that would send it through the car radio; she pushed some buttons and said, "Here, this is your theme song, Jerr." While Jessie did every corny dance move she could in a seat belt, Billy Idol yelled at high volume, "...When there's no-one else in sight - In the crowded lonely night - Well I wait so long - For my love vibration - And I'm dancing with myself - Oh dancing with myself - Oh dancing with myself...." Jerry did all the moves he could do while driving, but before the end of the track, he took out his iPod and got it ready. When the song ended, he grabbed the transmitter and connected his player. He said, "And this is your theme song." Todd Rundgren sang, "I don't want to work - I want to bang on the drum all day - I don't want to play - I just want to bang on the drum all day...." Jessie and Jerry banged on everything they could reach. Their mother tried to read. Almost fifteen miles ahead already, their father was apparently talking to no one. "Oh, well, tell him congratulations, and that E. F. Kerrson called about the Bigwell Development's IPO....Alright, I'm also out of town now, but I'll call him Friday afternoon at 3:30. Nice talking to you again, Good bye." He took the Bluetooth out of his ear and slammed it down on the seat. ~Damn it~, he thought, ~I need to get his commitment. Three more to qualify for my quarterly bonus. Damn lawyers are always bastards to close. Conceited and tricky. Must be careful, and this guy is a real big- shot DC tax guy. But a big score if I get him on board. Taking his kid to start college, huh. That could have been a great talking point, but he's probably on his way to somewhere in Massachusetts, not Podunk-e-i-o. A Liberal Frigging Arts College. Won't even mention it. Eighteen years, everything I've done has been for them, and this is the thanks I get. Well, at least I set him straight about majors. Photography or Music! Hobbies! Maybe, Literature or Psychology. Christ, if I have to pay for it, he will damn well study something useful. International Business, Economics. Pre-Law. It's still not too late for him. He could get into an impressive Law or MBA program. Then we could work on a deal together someday. Well, at least those two think of me as a Venture Capitalist, not just a broker. Why can't they just develop some ventures with potential? Like this Bigwell thing, things that build the country.~ He slammed his hand against the CD button and a professional baritone said, "Part two. Sell Today, Not Tomorrow. It is always paramount to keep the immediate advantages in the client's mind, even when discussing long term goals...." ***** So now we have three cars!?? Yes, eight characters in three cars - it'll work. All right, but I don't see why you have to complicate this, why not just tell Jerry's story and then tell the other one, or just post them as two different things completely. Keep it simple, stupid. I try sometimes, but that isn't what this story is. I don't just sit at the keyboard and write, you know. Actually, the writing happens when I'm driving the car, or cooking, or listening to my boss yap. The ideas sometimes come in a flood; when I start to type, it is like opening a garden hose and then simply getting everything spayed out evenly. Most of the time, however, they bash me like rocks of all different sizes and shapes, and will keep bouncing off my head until I do something with them; at the keyboard I juggle them and reshape them at the same time and try to fit them into a structure. I've got to work with what I've got. And sometimes they come as nylon bags of birdseed falling from a young girl's breast? So I've heard, but be careful with the inside jokes that only a few will get. You think that is how real writers work too? Real writers?? How would I know? Maybe the good ones are the ones that can create their own stones, maybe they are better at building from what they have or can juggle better, or maybe they always get to build and shape their structures with the water from the hose. But don't you think all this back and forth confuses some people? Maybe some; maybe not; I don't know. I am trying to keep their number down. Look, we just do this for fun. It's a game the readers and I play together, like all fiction is. And I like stories that play with me too. If no one gets seriously competitive about it, then no one gets seriously hurt. Am I supposed to talk about the Intentional Fallacy here? No, I decided to drop that. Oh, you're going to still do the "fiction as a field" thing though, right? I liked that. You did? Well, the confession you made at the end of it. You would. Maybe later; not now. Quit procrastinating. Get to work. At chiseling stones, huh? I do the masonry; you're just some of the sand. Now go, before I drop a rock. Hurry! Contest! Deadline! ***** After some more rounds of dueling songs, Jessie told the long version of the beginning of a recent feud. "...so that's when Caitlyn poured the coke over her head, and I think she totally deserved it; don't you?? "Oh, maybe." "Jerry, don't you see. She was being all 'Mean Girls' on people and trying to start a clique at our school, and we're famous for not being like that." "You are?" "Don't you think so?" "There wasn't a powerful in-crowd like at Prep-Day. But there are lots of cliques at The Hall, Jess. The Partiers; The Existentials, some even know what that means; The Jocks, even if they do always lose; The Grinds and the Brains, who really hate each other. There was even a clique of sophomore girls last year that everyone but themselves called the Perts." "I never heard of them. Who?" "Well there was Cindy and Heather B. and Caitlyn and, oh yeah, Jessie Kerrson." "We're not a clique; we're just friends. Perts is like a shampoo, gah." Jerry spoke in a falsetto and wagged his head and shoulders so his hair flew into his face as he said, "Eww, yeah, and it's a so yucky shampoo boys use too. That name totally does not fit you four." "You are so mean! We are not airheads at all." "Didn't say you were. You're just pert and perky all the time, and that annoys some people. Close friends or clique; it's a fine line." "Agh. You should start tying your hair back, Jerr, you'd look like one of the Perts then or was there a Metro clique at The Hall too?" "Oh, Jessie fires back with her only weapon and strikes an astoundingly meaningless blow." "All right," their mother said from the back seat, "Jerr, did you get your story finished?" The entering freshmen have to turn in a three-hundred word story when they sign in for the orientation. Ostensibly, the stories will be used to determine their sections of the required writing seminar. They were given eight of the usual themes to pick from: use a song lyric in a story, a lesson learned, a regular day, etc. "Yeah, maybe. It's twenty words too long; I don't know if I can cut out that many or not." "Which theme did you pick?" "I'm not sure of that either. It's either learning a lesson, a story using a song lyric, or a story with a story inside it." "I hate stories in stories," Jessie said. "Why can't the writers get on with it and publish their short stories later." Jerry thought, ~And she only has two more years of high school.~ He said, "Sometimes they're important. They explain things about characters without doing backstory, or they foreshadow plot and stuff. Pay a lot of attention to them when you're writing about the books." "Yeah, yeah. So let's see your story, smart guy." "I left my laptop in our father's car." Jessie made a grab for Jerry's stomach and felt the rectangular medallion under his shirt. She said, "Like we don't know how OCD you are. Fork it over. BTW, big bro, only ultra-geeks put those around their necks." Jerry pulled the flash drive out of his shirt and said, "Wrong, regular geeks do; ultra-geeks keep three or four in their pocket with the cords hanging out. It's 'Thyme', like the herb. Don't go looking at the other files." "Like I want to know your inner-most thoughts - ugh, scary thought." When she had the file open on her laptop, she said, "OK, here it is: '"Thyme" by Jeremy L. Kerrson'. Oh, he copyrighted it, Mom. That means he thinks it's good. 'It was a time of happiness. It was a time of anxiety. It was a time of accomplishments....' Ripping off a famous opening, that's kind of risky isn't it?" Jerry said, "It's called parallelism, Jessie. Dickens didn't invent it." He did wonder if that did echo Dickens too much though, but he really liked the way the story was bracketed. Jessie said, "Your story; your call. 'It was a time of dependence. It was childhood. "'"'...to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme...,'" the boy's mother sang as he hummed along. "'He was harvesting two teaspoons of fresh thyme for her. Being helpful today was very important. His father was home today; he stayed in the city almost all the time now. The boy removed each leaf from the twig one by one. If a leaf had any stem attached, he used his thumbnail against a cutting board to remove it. He had the first teaspoon almost half full already. "'His father came in and said, "You?re wasting time. Hold the top and run your fingers down the stick. See? Hurry; we'll play ball when you're done. You need the practice." "'That morning the boy had been viciously hoeing the flowerbeds, breaking up clods and attacking the dandelions. His father had said, "That's useless, kid. You have to take your time and get to the roots. If you're going to do a job, do it well." "'After his father left, he emptied the teaspoon and searched out all the leaves with stems. "We had a great time yesterday," he said, "He clapped and yelled, 'Way to go, boy-o!' every time I caught it." "'His mother kissed his forehead and said, "Don't hurry," then sang, "'Ti-ime is on our side. Yes, it is....'" Then she said, "You know, thyme isn't on our side really. Rosemary is, but not thyme. Add too much rosemary and you change the dish from 'Something with Rosemary' to 'Rosemary Something'. But with thyme, too much makes your mouth go numb." "'"Yeah, too much time messes up things," the boy said. "'It was a time of anticipation. It was a time of disappointment. It was a time of bewilderment. It was a time of realizations.' "OK, not too shabby. I know one person who will never read this." Jessie said. "It's good, Jerry," his mother said, changing the subject quickly. "Of course, I haven't checked your punctuation yet, and it's my very last chance to too. I don't really think that tiny flashback is a story in the story though. So you're down to two categories." "Yeah, that was longer once," Jerry said. "Go with 'A Lesson Learned'; that's subtler. Don't you have to mention Simon and Garfunkel and The Rolling Stones somewhere though?" Jessie said. Jerry shook his head, he thought it too short to worry about attributing the lyrics. He said. "Yeah, I'll call it a lesson. Jess, delete the entire first paragraph and then type 'It was childhood.' at the end and tell me how many words that is." "Two hundred and ninety-six." "OK, I can replace some adjectives and use some conjunctions instead of the stupid semicolons and be bang on. But don't save it that way yet." Jessie scanned the new version and said, "I like it. Very nice, Jerry. Oh! Shi-i-isss!" The last part had nothing to do with Jerry's story; Jessie had just spotted her father's car on the side of the road with the hood open. ***** I don't really think that story.... Come on! I thought we were on a roll, and we're not done here yet. If you say so, but that story didn't say anything about Jerry that wasn't already known and had nothing to do with the plot. Really? I thought it added something, but sometimes stories in stories just mean the writer had a very short idea and needed a place to use it. But there are other possibilities too; you never know. So, you misled the readers. Jerry did say "sometimes"; I prefer to call it irony. You would, and you know you only got a four nested quote; I heard the record's seven. I confess I was shooting for five, but Barth owns that record. It's deep enough. to annoy Amelia anyway. (Ed. Note: ~You bet it is. Hurts my eyes to count quotation marks.~) And you could have had Jerry's story finished instead of all the talk of editing it. Sure, but I just think that is what would have happened with Jerry. Some people talk, and when they begin to write that becomes important to them, so they talk about it. OK, but this story is getting longer and longer and nothing's happened yet! I think that is just wrong. At the very least, we have built some characters. And a car has broken down. Go back to the story. And this part is short, then we're going to join Ben's family. Don't come back here when that happens. The deadline is getting closer. All right, but why do you keep mentioning your deadline? You're the only one who cares about it. I thought it built suspense; like the shots of the clock in "High Noon". Doubt it. Just go! And stay away awhile. ***** "What took you so damn long, Kay?" were the first word out of Jerry's father's mouth as the others got out of the van. Jerry's mother said, "That's how long it took us, is all. What happened, Ed?" "Tire?s flat, not even a year old. Damn Germans." Jerry was looking at the tire already and said, "Not the Germans? fault this time; it's got a huge nail in it." "And the idiot auto club won't come onto the turnpike unless it's a tow, so I have to sit here and wait until some traveler's aid van comes by. They said it was usually an hour, which means at least two." "You have a spare, don't you? We can change it, Daddy," Jessie said. "It's not some jalopy, sweetheart. It needs special treatment." Jerry said, "The only trick is the lock on the lug nuts, I know how to do that." He was already taking bags out of the trunk to get to the jack. "Jeremy, I don't want you to screw up my car." "He won't, Ed. It's better than sitting here for hours, isn't it?" Kay said. Ed didn't answer but went to find the manual and look at the instructions. Jerry got the manufacturer-provided jack and found the special slot it needed under the car. The car was just barely off the highway, on the rounded, gravel shoulder. He started turning the crank, but as soon as the jack took some of the weight, the two legged contraption slipped in the gravel. After the third try, Ed said, "See, I knew it wouldn't work." Jerry walked over to the fence to look for a flat rock or piece of wood to put under the jack. Kay said, "Take it easy on him, Ed. He's trying at least." "Well, it's a man's job, not his," Jerry's father said just as Jerry got back in hearing range. Jessie did her best to distract her father by saying, "Daddy, did Jerry talk to you about getting a freezer for his room?" Jerry cut in quickly. "That's your idea, Jess, not mine." "Why the hell would he need a freezer in a dorm room? Just to waste money?" "His roommate's name is Ben. They could sell ice cream from their room." Ed actually laughed. "That's not a bad idea. You wouldn't need a big freezer either." The jack had just fallen off the rock again, and Jerry said, "Except there is a snack bar right in the building. We wouldn't get much business." "Damn it, Jeremy," Ed said. "You have to try things; be creative sometimes." Jerry said, "His last name is McGee too. I could drop the last part of my name and we would be Kerr-McGee. We could sell plutonium rods and gasoline, and my name would come first." "OK, make it a joke. Dell Computer was started in a dorm room; did you know that? Think outside the box sometimes." Jerry kicked the stone he had been trying to use and walked to the van. He wondered why almost every time you heard that box expression it was being used by someone who was the box. Kay asked, "What do you want to do, Ed? I could go to the next town and send someone back." "Can't you just wait! I told you, I called and they won't come on the turnpike unless it's a tow job. If the aid van doesn't come in an hour, I'll ride with you and bribe someone competent to come back with me." Kay walked away. When she got close to Jerry she started singing, "Time isn't on his side; no, it isn't." Jerry grinned at her, and she said, "He really is better in small doses, isn't he. But, Jerry, I know this to be true: He really does care about you a whole lot, and has big dreams for you." Jerry still grinned and nodded, but he said, "Yeah, dreams and ambitions are great, as long as they're not mine." Then he walked further up the road and sat down near the shoulder and launched rocks at a fence post. You move back up the road to Ben's car instantly. When you get inside the old Chevy, the car stereo is still singing songs from American Beauty, but since Mac likes the repeat button, and may have replayed the whole CD, that doesn't tell you how much time has passed. Mac is trying to think about the Jamerson lease buyout as he drives. Sunshine, daydream, walking in the tall trees, going where the wind goes - Blooming like a red rose, breathing more freely,... Ben is typing on his laptop, and Lilly is reading a paperback, but you can't see the cover. Don't think about what you left behind - The way you came or the way you go - Let your tracks be lost in the dark and snow.... Faye is sitting cross-legged behind her father because the seat is pushed so far back that she has no legroom. She is practicing her astral projection skills, concentrating on being somewhere else. She resents it that she was made to come on this trip, as if she could not be trusted alone for three days. She resents it that she is not allowed to drive even though she has her learner's permit. She resents it that her mother is an idiot, who she believes dotes on her sibling. She resents it that no one knows, or cares, about all the things she resents. However, her strongest emotion is fear, or at least anxiety, and having to sit here hour after hour is just giving her the opportunity to think about her fears. She is losing Ben tomorrow. She feels she will now be her mother's only target. She will hear twice as much about dressing better and finding the 'right' boy. Or, when her mother knows she has a boy friend, she will hear twice as much about 'being careful' (She isn't sure if that means "don't do it," "don't get a reputation," "don't get date raped," or "don't get pregnant or a disease." Her mother isn't real clear.) Her father is more understanding but always sides with her mother eventually. Ben was the only one that could ever moderate her mother's concerns (she admitted they were well meant.) and harassment. He was the only one that could negotiate a compromise with her. Now he was gone. Her mother was imponderable to Faye. The concern for appearance was ridiculous. Faye cared about other things, more important things. And so did the boys she liked and the boys who liked her. Because no matter what she looked like, and what her mother thought (Yes, she knows her mother thinks, or fears, it.), she was definitely not a lesbian. How was she going to survive for two years? But more importantly still, the greater fear, ~What is Ben going to do??~ Her mother interrupts her thoughts. "Faye, why do you have to sit like that? Even Pocahontas didn't sit Indian style; fold your legs to the side if there isn't room on the floor." Faye groans. She has been sitting the same stupid way, in the same stupid spot, for most of two stupid days. But her father answers for her, "Let her be, Lilly. She's cramped back there; let her be as comfortable as possible." "OK, I just wish you could be more ladylike, Faye." Lilly says. She reaches over to push a hair out of Faye's face. Faye swats the hand away and glares. Her mother smiles at her with the weird, indecipherable grin she gets sometimes, and says, "Mac, can you get out Joshua Tree and play that last song." The other three all groan, but Ben gets the disc while Mac removes the one playing. "Mother, why do you like that song so much? It's depressing. Do you know what it's about?" Ben asks. "Of course I know, it's about children getting taken away, but I like it anyway." "But why, Lil? When it was new, you wouldn't even listen to it. You complained that anyone would record such a thing," Mac says. "OK, I'll tell you. It makes me happy when we hear it together." The others laugh, and Faye says, "What?" "Well not Mac, just with both of you, and this will be the last time I can for a long time." Mac says, "You're going to have to explain that better, Lilly" "It was about twelve years ago - you still had Bizzy, Ben; remember, that monkey in the blue dress you always wanted to take everywhere - Mac was out of town or working late or something, and we went to a movie and got a burger, I think. Anyway, for some reason we were driving home very late, and both of you fell asleep in the backseat. This song came on; I changed over to the radio right away, it was a tape player way back then, and the tape popped halfway out when you did that. Right after that, I was going into an intersection. This big pickup whipped around the stopped cars and came racing through at about seventy. I hit the brakes so hard I went into a spin, and the back fender hit the pole on the center strip with me facing the other way. I was shaking I was so scared! And I whirled around to look into the back and both of you were still sound asleep, like nothing had happened, and somehow the tape had gotten pushed in and I heard (Lilly sings this; she's a second soprano.): 'Hear their heartbeats - we hear their heartbeats. - In the wind we hear their laughter - In the rain we see their tears'. And knowing it's about real dead children makes it mean even more, but I can only listen to it at all when you both are right with me." Ben starts Mothers of the Disappeared. They listen to Bono sing the song twice and are still listening to U2 when Mac sees a car with a flat tire and pulls over to help. Before he's all the way off the road, he says, "OK kids, let's do this real fast. You know what to do." ***** That's either very poignant or just pathetic. I guess parenthood is a pretty pathetic condition if you say that. I think I did a pretty good characterization in one paragraph, and I did it contrary to expectations but without ignoring anything that was said earlier. Are you really going to pretend you think about that stuff? Well, sometimes I do; not always I guess, and then it's usually after the fact. I told you ideas come like rocks hitting me in the head. Sometimes the rocks are lines, sometime they're characters or events or stories a character will tell. Whatever, OK? Come on; we've got to get Jerry caught up. He has a lot to say before Ben gets there. ***** Jerry had been sitting alone for almost ten minutes when Jessie came and sat beside him. She said, "Don't let him get to you, bro. He didn't even try to fix it. Can't get that Izod dirty." "Oh, it's no big deal really," Jerry said, "but look down there, on top of the fifth post. You see it?" "What is that? A turtle?" "Yeah, well probably a tortoise, but they're called fence turtles. I heard about them somewhere. They show up on country roads all over the place." "Why? How do they get up there?" "That's the point. You know they didn't get there by themselves; that they didn't ask to be there and would rather be anywhere else; and that they don't have a clue on how to get down. But why?" "Let's go look at it." "It's probably dead and crawling with bugs and bacteria, Jess," Jerry said, but Jessie just walked over to the turtle anyway, so he followed. Jessie called to him, "It's empty and no bugs, Jerr. Already picked clean. Jerry reached Jessie as she reached out for the shell. "I wonder why the wind or the birds haven't knocked it off?" he asked. "It's stuck on with some black stuff. Probably someone on a road crew or a farmer used tar," she answered. "OK, we solved that great mystery. Poor guy, stuck there to starve and get eaten alive." "No, there's some tar inside the shell too. They probably only do it to empty shells they find." "You just really destroyed that allegory, Jess." "Sorry, I guess. -- Do you remember about five years ago when our house had mice?" "Yeah." "Whenever you saw even the empty traps, you wouldn't look at them, and I was only ten or eleven and would set the traps because it didn't bother me." "Yeah, and?" "And the way you acted about the turtle reminded me of that. I know you hate it when I tease you, but it's really too bad you aren't a trannie, Jerr. I mean, it would solve lots of your problems with our father too; he just thanked me for trying to help; and I know you get grief worse than mine about your looks and beard and size and all, and even all my friends really like you because you're not like most guys. You listen and ... I don't know, you aren't leering and you talk. That's all." Jerry laughed out loud and said, "Are you going to tell me I must be gay now?" "No; and I'm not being mean, but for as long as I can remember, you've always had girl friends too. I mean, friends that were girls, you know. It's just too bad you aren't a girl, 'cause you would be good at it, and you could be more like you. I should shut up." "It's OK, Jess, but, shit, I've sometimes had some boys who were friends too, right? And I'm not so sure I'd really make that good a girl either. And I'm not that sure I'm all that bad at being a boy. Maybe, you've got warped expectations." "What do you mean?" "Well, look, you just told me that I was too kind and nice to be a real boy, didn't you? That says a lot. And you just don't get it at all! Yeah, girls say that they like the 'sensitive guys', but that's crap really. Maybe when you?re older you will, I don't know, but you want guys to do handstands for you and grunt if you can get them to." "That's so unfair!" "It so isn't either! You think I got ragged on by guys at school? Well, you're wrong. Well, I did some, but even with most of the assholes it took something to set it off; like them realizing I was smarter, or I was a friend of some girl that wouldn't talk to them, or that they wanted to show off to the other assholes. The same guys at other times might talk about a teacher or ask about an assignment. But lots of the girls were a lot worse; it was like I didn't exist, or worse, because I wasn't hot or cool or hunky, or I was too nerdy or squirrelly looking." "But you talked to lots of girls, like Linda and my friends." "No, like you said before, I listened. I almost never talked, and to very few, very seldom about stuff like this. Sometimes with Linda, which is why I liked her; she didn't care that I wasn't macho; guess that makes her gay, right? And maybe it makes me gay too for wanting to, huh? With Chuck I could touch on things because he felt the same stuff, but if a boy gets too open to another boy, one or the other has to run or both have to come out of the closet. That's just in the rules and, even more, it's in the training." Jessie said, "Come on, Jerry. Our father may be a bit like that, but Mom sure isn't." "You got that backwards too. During last fall's midterms, when grades were such a big deal, because it was the last grades the colleges would see, he got it. When I was at his place, he told me to take a pillow in the bathroom and scream into it, or pound on it, not exactly sympathy, but it was something, and I don't even know how he homed in on that; I guess he does know about stress. The best Mom would do is suggest a ten minute break or a cookie when she caught me pacing while I studied. You sigh about a dirty blouse, and you get a hug. "See, when you walked over to me before, you said, 'Don't let him get to you.' You thought I was mad at our father; the one allowed male emotion. I needed to get away from him, sure, but I was thinking about starting at college with all new people and an all new reputation to build and not being a geek any more. And I guess I was thinking about how I look and how it works against me. Hell, maybe you're right, and I should be a girl or gay or a fucking hermit. And maybe I should just go with it and play the part that everyone says I look. But I'm sick of not touching people and not being able to be sad or say I don't want to kill mice or talk about the pretty photograph I took or...anything. And I think - I know - if I looked tougher, I could actually be softer, maybe. Or rather show how soft I am more. Remember that guy I almost ran into at the rest area? Nobody would rag on him for picking up a kitten or something, but they sure would on me! "But here I am. Didn't really get here by myself; didn't really ask to be who I am, and I don't know how to change." "But I thought you really wanted to go to this college?" "Oh, I do; that's not what I'm saying. -- You know I turned down a school that would have even impressed our father, right? Well never tell him; he thinks a diploma is just a status symbol. -- But that doesn't mean it isn't scary, Jess. It's a new start, but it will probably lead to the same end. It's all about image. It's a nice post I'm on top of, and I picked it, but I've still got to deal with it, alone. And I'm not supposed to let anyone know that it's frightening. "Sorry, I think you opened the wrong topic at the wrong time." Jessie said, "I think I hit the right one at the right time. You boys are always so macho and hide everything." "Well, we darn bloody well better. Girls are looking for a knight to save them, even the strong and independent ones are; who wants a knight that can't deal with his own dragons, or mouse traps? And guys are looking to show they are knights and have a longer lance than someone else. And soon you learn to hide the scars." Jessie put her arms around Jerry and said, "I don't care if you are a boy or not, I'll take care of your scars, and I'll look for boys who are hiding them, because they're probably the best knights for the real perils." Jerry returned her hug but said, "Maybe, Jess, but you'll probably be too busy giggling at the apes doing handstands." "Jerry, we don't like those guys really. It's a real pain getting stared at by those jerks all the time. I guess you don't really know how girls feel." "Really, huh? Or do you mean you want to pick the guys who can stare at you? Look how you're dressed for a car ride. You've got overalls that barely reach your thighs, and you're disappointed your ass isn't big enough to make them real tight so your cheeks peek out, and under the bib you have a four inch strip around your chest. But you hate it when boys look." Jessie laughed and said, "Gah, you've become a prude. This is comfortable. And they are called shortalls and a tube top, and it's at least eight inches. "I know what they're called, but didn't want you to think I was a fag because I did." "What should I wear? A burka? "No, I like girls dressed like that too, so maybe I'm not gay, but - wait - maybe that's envy. Oh, well. But a burka is really another way to draw stares and stir the imagination. Maybe, that was always their purpose. You're just stuck, but don't say you don't like it. "I will say it, because it's a girl's prerogative to be contradiction- ary-ish." "Just go with full of contradictions," Jerry said. "OK," she said and put her arm around him again, then added, "I think we need to go back before the parentals start fighting. But, Jerry, most girls hug back when you hug them. Maybe they all want protectors, but they like to mother people too." "Maybe, but I think they want two different people for the two roles. Go on. I'm going to exercise the only male prerogative I know of and water a fence post." "Sure, always lording your advantages over us," Jessie said and walked towards the cars. Just as Jerry got to the van, an old car with a trailer pulled off to help them. Jerry's father yelled out, "Oh great! Some Okies have come to rescue us." Jessie said, "Their license plate says Virginia, not Oklahoma, Daddy." Her sardonic wit went unnoticed, something she had counted on. Ed answered, "Well, if you hear banjo music, run like hell." Jessie asked Jerry her question with a look, and he said, "It's a joke about Deliverance, an old movie." Ed saw two large teenage boys jump out of the car and go quickly to their trunk. Two adults followed more slowly, and he walked towards the very large man and hollered, "Thanks, but the aid van will be here soon. We can just wait." While he was speaking, one of the boys walked by him carrying an orange triangle and he realized it was a girl. Mac said, "It's no problem. You can't count on those vans or the cops when you need them, and the jacks they put in cars today won't work on these shoulders. We're prepared." Ben continued moving quickly. He got a small hydraulic floor jack and placed it under the Mercedes. Ed asked him, "Are you sure that's alright with this car?" Mac answered while Ben worked, "You bet, even expensive cars can be lifted by the differential." As he began raising the jack, Ben turned to Jerry and said in a soft, almost baritone voice, "You can start loosening the lug nuts, but don't take them off yet." Jerry started trying; he removed all the pins but didn't have the first nut loose when Faye came back and said, "Kick it; it's frozen." That worked, and Ben had the car up and was removing loose nuts by hand while Jerry was still loosening others with the wrench and his foot. Jessie rolled the fake spare tire over, and Faye put it on the wheel. She got all the nuts finger tight, then Jerry stomped on the wrench once for each nut to tighten it while Ben lowered the jack. "All done," Ben said. He had been out of the car less than ten minutes. Mac said, "Ben, run up there and get the triangle." Ed walked with Mac towards the Chevy and said, "Wow, I guess you've had practice. Let me pay you something for your help." "Not necessary; we were glad to do it," Mac said. "But a tow company would have charged a fortune, here." "No, really. We don't want anything." "But I owe you something." Mac shook his head and said, "Just help someone else sometime, or give it to charity." "I've never met her," Ed said, "Come on, let me buy some beer for you and the kids." ~Damn It!~, Mac thought, but after three refusals, it became an argument. He took the twenty dollars Ed held out and got into the Chevy. Ed turned around and said, "Let's get this stuff put away; did you see how fast those people worked?" It was decided that, since the car could only go forty-five with the temporary tire, the van would take the flat tire on ahead. Jerry carried/pushed the tire off, Jessie gathered up the tools, and Kay and Ed reloaded the trunk. They had everything put away but the plastic tweezers used on the lug- locks, which seemed to have run off. As they looked for the tool, Jessie said, "You know that was the same guy you almost ran over at the rest stop, and his name was Ben. Wouldn't it be real weird if he turned out to be your roommate? That would be like something out of a story, wouldn't it? You've never seen your roomie's picture, right?" "Yeah," Jerry said, "He's got a Facebook page, but he doesn't have any pictures of himself on it. That's all I need, Jessie, some giant uber- jock as a roommate. But if someone who looks like that guy knows how to use Facebook at all, he probably has it plastered with pictures of that square head. So it's probably not him." Jessie saw the plastic tweezers under the car, and she tried to reach them without lying on the gravel. Soon she had one leg stuck way out for balance. Then she suddenly fell on her stomach and quickly got out from under the car. She backed away from the others as she said, "I can't reach it. You'll have to get it, Jerr. Mom, you ready? See you, Daddy." Jerry got down on his stomach and slithered under the car to get the tool. Kay said, "I guess we're going. Jerry, are you riding with Ed?" "Yeah," Jerry said from under the car, "the tire?s taking up the third seat." "Call us as soon as you find a station that can fix it and tell us where it is," Ed said. Jerry got out from under the car, and the van pulled off. While Jerry was putting the tweezers away, Ed said, "You've got grease or something on your back, and your jeans are filthy. Do you have something else to wear so you don't mess up my seats?" Meanwhile, back in the Chevy.... ***** Boss, that segue really stinks. I'll fix it later if there's time. Thank you for staying away so long that time. Now leave. Don't get testy. You got our two main characters together, and then they barely spoke to each other. What are you doing? Yeah, kind of builds your anticipation, doesn't it? No, not really. Well, it leads to familiarity then; look, I'm not going to go in to it. They are in each other's world for lots of reasons; conversation doesn't have to be one of them. And why did you have Jessie say that about it being like a story? Does that mean that they aren't going to be roommates now? They're never going to meet again, right? It might mean that; it might mean the opposite. Don't depend on Jessie; characters rarely know they are characters. Well, except in Jasper Fforde's Next universe, and there they don't always know they are sometimes characters in his stories. That sentence is confusing. Not always. But let's get on with the story. We need to get back to Ben. He's really been getting short shrift, and he is very important to this tale. Plus, we still have a deadline, remember! OK, I'm going. Why didn't you just start earlier if you so worried about getting done on time? Well, when I first heard of the contest, I got this idea, and I think it ties into the theme, but I tried to ignore it because I have this major opus I really need to work on. But the idea kept pounding on me. Then after my first start, I had some computer problems and lost a Lot of my prose things. After awhile I got restarted, but now I need to hurry. OK? And when did this story become a memoir? Just go on and tell the story. OK, OK. ***** As soon as he is in the driver's seat, Mac hands each of his kids ten dollars and says, "That's found money, not earned. Find someone who needs it more than you do and give them at least half of it. And don't y