Photo of the Day #118

Photo of the Day #117

Hang in there

Writing is easy. We are all taught how to write in grade school and it's a skill we use throughout our lives.

So why does it seem like I can't write a simple blog post more frequently? The answer, my friends, is that writing is not always so easy. It is actual work. Yes, I know that I rarely sweat as I pound out brilliant prose on my laptop, and my ass looks a lot like the seat of my chair. But writing is work, and not only that, it doesn't pay very well. People who call themselves writers like to write, have to write.

So why does this mean that you, my fans – which I can count on a single hand – have to wait to hear from me? In a nutshell, I've been real busy. As most of you may know, my day job is that of a newspaper editor. At the beginning of the year, I also had the job of general manager tagged on to me. A little more pay and a lot more work. Now I have to create reports and presentations and do the whole corporate thing. I'm not complaining, (yes, I am) but it takes some time. Throw into that mix my “extracurricular” activities, such as serving on the board of the New Mexico Press Association, working on my own novels and short stories, parenting, husbanding, sleeping – you get the idea – and I can't find time. For those of you concerned about me burning the candle at both ends, you are correct. I do make an effort to set aside down time, although I usually end up paying bills or napping.

When you get a lot of things going on, you have to prioritize projects. Blogging is just about at the absolutely bottom of that list and most weeks I just don't have the time.

So for those of you who care, thanks for checking back from time to time to see what I'm up to. For those who have given up on me, I ask you to be patient. For those who are waiting for my next book, I ask you to hang in there – it should be done in a couple of months. Once that project is complete, I'll be starting on the sequel to “Time in the World.”

And hopefully, posting here a bit more often.

R

Fixing a bridge

I've been working on my next novel for almost two years now. I know, that seems like a long time. It seems like a long time to me as well.

Fortunately, I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but the past couple of days have been a struggle. The reason may not seem so clear to those who haven't gone down this road themselves. The simplest explanation is a credo coined by the great science fiction author Theodore Sturgeon: “Ask the next question.”

Basically, what Sturgeon was trying to impart was that when writing a story, it must progress forward, that each paragraph, each sentence, each word must serve to move the story forward on a logical course. I like to think of a story as if the author is writing about a journey the characters make, and I think of it in terms of a road map. If you are to follow a map to a destination, you chart out a route. If we think about the story in terms of the beginning, middle and end of a journey, there should not be any breaks in the road.

When I'm driving on a real journey, I like to get off the route and explore. I remember vividly once when my oldest son was just a baby a road trip we took to Idaho to see my brother and his family. This was the first time I'd attempted to drive a long distance with a baby in the car, but we assumed correctly that we wouldn't be able to push through long distances. We mapped out our route from New Mexico to Idaho thinking that no more than six hours in the van would be all the baby would stand. We planned stops accordingly throughout the trip and learned fairly quickly that if we left for the day's drive early in the morning, the child would sleep through most of the driving.

My wife and I studied the map, because that's what you do when you are stuck in a vehicle for hours at a time going through strange territory. Before the kids, it was not unusual for us to get off the route to check out what was down a road, or to see a tourist spot. On this occasion, there on the map was a road that turned off the highway and went to a place called Incline Point. And like the siren's song, it was calling to us. The map indicated the road was about 20 miles long and that it was paved.

With a nod to each other, we decided to see what Incline Point was all about. Five miles in, we learned the map had lied – the road was not paved. It was washboard gravel for 15 miles, which meant I couldn't drive faster that 25 mph. A 20 minute drive was turning into a hot, dusty, bumpy hour long experience. The baby woke up – of course – and started fussing. Our moods got worse and worse; and yet we were committed to seeing Incline Point.

Finally we made it. Incline Point was an overlook into Canyonlands National Park. It was an interesting view, I won't deny that; but there were two adults and a baby who were wishing they were sitting by a pool at a motel in Green River, Utah instead. After a quick lunch because there was no shade. We got back into the van and spent another hour or so getting back to the highway, and another two hours on the road still ahead of us. By the time we actually did make it poolside, we were hot, dirty and thirsty. And in a foul mood because we'd just listened to a baby scream for the past two hours.

When I write a story – either fiction or nonfiction – its elements have to be linear. (I know folks who write non-linear experimental stuff. If you like that stuff, good for you. Personally, I find it tedious.)

In the process of writing, though, I have a tendency to go down that gravel road to see what is there. Most times, it's nothing. Sometimes there is interest and some times you love where you've gone. That's when the act of writing gets frustrating. If a detour off the map still gets you to your destination, then everything is just fine; except for all those things you just went around. And oftentimes you end up down a cul-de-sac. It might be a very nice neighborhood that you wouldn't mind visiting a bit longer, but it doesn't get you where you need to go.

That's why the second and third drafts of a book can be excruciating and time-consuming. The writer is studying his map and constantly saying to himself: “Ask the next question.”

This past week, I found I had not written a clear route for my characters. I could see the road ahead, but there was a metaphorical bridge out. I had to repair the bridge.

This is where a lot of writers get bogged down and tend to quit. I'm not judging, I've done it more than I care to admit. But I found that if I can talk about the problem, a solution usually presents itself. This is when my family really suffers.

For the length of our marriage, it has been my wife who has had to listen to me ramble on about the piece I'm working on. It helps that she is an artist and doesn't question my creative process even those hers is much different. (I'm extremely verbal and talkative about what I'm doing, she says nothing until her work is done.) She is great at helping me; invaluable really. She knows how I think and knows the right questions to ask. She knows that I usually need to talk it through so my mind can tell me what needs to be done. Sometimes she makes suggestions that don't make sense at first, but then lead to solutions. She keeps me going with encouragement and nagging.

That's why every book I've written is dedicated to her.

I also feel guilty because I ask this of her. So I'm trying to train my two sons to fill that role as well. I've had mixed success with that, but it's progressing fine. The youngest, who is 12, will one day make an excellent editor if he chooses to do so. He questions and challenges everything. And while his suggestions for changes in a story are those of a 12-year-old, they are of a sophisticated 12-year-old. In a couple of years, he'll be really good at analyzing a story and identifying weaknesses and strengths. What makes him good at it, is that he thinks about a problem I'll bring to him as if it's a puzzle to be solved.

His brother – the baby from earlier in this essay – is 16 and a creative type as well. His forte, though, is music. This is something I really want to tap into, because if there is a way of thinking that I'd like to emulate in my writing, it is that of a musician. The problem, though, is that he hears his own muse and has little time for other people's. It's not that he can't be helpful, it's just hard to talk over the sound of music that is constantly playing in his head. I still come to him with my literary problems, though, not because I think I'll get help from him, but because I think I'm helping him. He's heading down the road of learning how to take his given talents and create something. He's independent-minded and will rarely ask for help.

That's not a judgment, it's and observation of how he learns – through observation and doing it himself.

So even though I've been talking about this book for the past two years, my oldest son still has no idea what it's about. Every time I try to get feedback on a tricky part, I have to explain the whole thing over again. While this exercise can be frustrating, it also serves a valuable purpose. Not only am I teaching him about the problem I'm facing, I'm teaching myself.

So yesterday, I was doing a lot of talking and I came up with the solution. Then I spent several hours on the manuscript tweaking here, rewriting there and adding new things. I fixed the bridge and now can continue on my journey.

Writing can be a lonely vocation if you let it. I imagine, though, that those who are most successful at it do not do it in a vacuum. Writing is a reflection of people and our desire to tell and hear stories. How can you do something like that by yourself?

I need Serenity

I'm not a religious person; faith has always been something that eluded me. That doesn't mean there aren't certain Christian aphorisms I find appealing.

One such is the Serenity Prayer:

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.”

I like it because of its existential underpinnings, something that has always appealed to me. I've only recently started taking a conscious effort to live under the principles of existentialism, and I don't know that I even understand it fully. What appeals most to me, though, is that the responsibility for my life lies solely with me. With the Serenity Prayer, we are asking God to grant these things, but the serenity to accept changes, courage to make changes and the wisdom to tell the difference comes from within.

Some of you may have noticed that it has been some time since I've written anything, and what I have written may have seemed … off. If you hadn't noticed this, you probably haven't been as distracted as I have over the past month, and I'm happy for you. Usually, when I go through stressful times, I take up pen and paper, or to the word processor, to make sense of things. Much of these scrawlings will end up in a piece somewhere and no one is the wiser.

Over the past six weeks, though, I've not felt like writing; but now that I'm out on the other side and had some time to think about all that has happened, I can get back to work. If you are expecting a narrative of all that has gone on, you can stop now. I can't impart that because I am only a minor character in much of what has gone on in the past six weeks. I have been the witness to events; the impact on my life remains to be seen, but like the Serenity Prayer says, I'm looking to find the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. And a lot of this I can't change.

There are many things I do control, and anyone who knows me may think of me as a control freak. The truth is that I love control and I do not lack the courage to make changes I can make. For the most part, that control I exert is over my own life, but there are certain responsibilities I have to my family, employer, and to the public through my role as a journalist.

What I strive to do is live my life authentically. Each day, we all make millions of decisions; most of which are minor and inconsequential and done with little thought. We may come into the office every morning and say hello to everyone and go about our day. But we may not say hello to one person in the office because that person made us angry last week, or maybe she is racist, or a homophobe. Regardless, we determine that our anger is such that we won't say hello. Here's the rub, to be authentic, to live my life in a manner which is true to me, I have decided that I want to be friendly to people regardless of how other people treat me. So, to be authentic, I have to say hello to those who make me angry. It doesn't mean I have to agree with them, but just that I will be courteous.

There is no higher moral authority telling me to be friendly other than my own desire to live an authentic life. It's not always easy.

So, for those of you traveling along through constant existential crises, thanks for sticking along. For those of you waiting patiently for my next fictional work, the writing of my next book has been hit and miss lately. The good news is that I will soon let loose a long, short story called “All Hail King Jerry the Greeter! King of Walmart!”

I'm working out some formatting issues, but it should be available in the next couple of weeks.

See you all in the new year!

Selling Out

A lot of people aren't familiar with the Modest Mouse song “Gravity Rides Everything” until they see a certain Nissan minivan commercial. Most folks have heard their song “Float On” – it was everywhere for awhile; commercials, movies even one of those stupid “Kids Rock” CDs.

The licensing deals brought Isaac Brock, the guy who wrote those songs, quite a bit of money and a reputation in the indie rock circles as a sell out. That may be, Brock said in an interview with the A.V. Club in 2004, but he doesn't have to worry about money while he goes about writing and performing what he wants to write and perform.

"People who don't play music for a living can criticize my morals while they live off their parents' money or wash dishes for some asshole,” Brock said in the A.V. Club interview.

“Figuring out ways to pay the rent isn't really a tough decision. Around the time we did the beer commercial and the shoe commercial, I thought, 'Am I compromising my music by doing this?' And I think not. I like keeping the lights on in my house. … Principles are something that people are a lot better at checking in other people than keeping their own.”

I bring this up because, in the literary world, this same sort of artistic purity argument makes its way around the Internet, causing arguments among friends and turning normally benign writer forums into seething pits of hate and animosity. I've have people accuse me of selling out, although I'm still not quite sure why. It might be my attitude that if some large publishing company wants to pay me a lot of money to write books and work with one of their editors, I would be happy to do so.

As it is, I'm going the indie route, not so much as a choice, but out of the necessity of building a following, no matter how small. I'm doing it myself right now because no one has stepped forward to offer to do it for me. Honestly, it would be great for some publisher to worry about marketing and such – although I understand that isn't always the case anymore.

I do see where those casting aspersions about selling out are coming from. There are some things some writers will do, such as writing vampire romance novels, in order to tap into a book market that is hot. Currently, the rage in publishing is young adult books. I suppose that anything I have written – with some editing – could be changed into a YA novel. Would I do that to make a sale to a publisher? Probably not, unless a large amount of money was thrown at me to do it. My reasons aren't necessarily greedy, but basic laziness. “Time in the World” took three years to write and edit. After that amount of time, I'm kind of tired of the characters and the book. I really don't want to revisit it and change it. Unless someone paid me to make it worth my while. Not every person may have a price, but I certainly do.

I guess that probably makes me a sell out who hasn't sold anything. Actually, in a lot of eyes it makes me someone willing to compromise my art. So be it. While there are certain aspects of “art” to my writing, I like to think it is more vocational in nature because it is hard work. I write stories I find entertaining and hopefully other people will as well. I'd like to be paid for the work I do.

A lot of writer self-help books impart the advice to potential writers to look at the market and to write what the market wants. I don't do this with my projects, but I certainly will not judge anyone who does. Mostly because people who write to the market are in for a lot of work for a piece that – even if it sells – will not make you a successful writer. For instance, I know I could not write a convincing vampire romance novel for the simple fact that I don't read vampire romance novels. The same goes for young adult adventure novels. I've read a few because those with a science fiction tilt to them tend to be derivative of other stories and aimed at a younger audience. The good ones are really good, the bad ones are really bad; but on the whole, I don't much care for kids or their problems. (Yes, yes … I love my own children and am involved with their lives. But there's little of their “world” I find interesting.)

When it's done well, some of these books can be really entertaining, but let's not kid ourselves and call this high literature; although many of the themes are borrowed from Literature, with a capital “L.” There's nothing wrong with that despite what your English literature professor tells you. I suppose the literati have always looked down their noses at something that is popular, mainstream. But there is a reason some books are trashy and still popular.

It's those who write and read “Literature” who are the most derisive about selling out. I suppose I could accuse these people of being jealous, but I doubt that's the case. After all, us writers who are slogging along working at creating works of fiction are the ones who are jealous. We want to be accepted by the hoi poloi of the Ivy League literary set. Yet we still like a fun science fiction or romance novel. And frankly, I have fun writing them – when else can you sit for hours and think about time travel?

As writers, there is a large amount of people out there willing to tell you how to do things. Advice is fine, I suppose, and some of these books and articles have good advice. But the decisions you make in creating a writing career are yours alone to make. If you want to maintain your artistic integrity and sell nothing, go to it. If you want to write a teen ghost story because the market is looking for that type of book, you have my blessing.

Personally, I'm going to continue doing what I'm doing; which is avoiding work on my science fiction thriller and doing blog posts.

Veterans Day

This is a piece I wrote a couple of years ago to mark Veterans Day. Enjoy.

When I think of veterans, I think of guys like John Hoover.

Mr. Hoover was one of my first bosses; an elderly man who oversaw the summer youth work program in the town where I lived. He couldn’t hear too well because of mortar rounds he shot at the Japanese on Guadalcanal.

Or I think of my father-inlaw, Dave Hesse, who left his family while the Air Force sent him to Vietnam.

But who I really think of, though, is Mike McKinney. I interviewed Mr. McKinney several years ago when the movie “Saving Private Ryan” came out. He knew a thing or two about D-Day; he was there. As a matter of fact he was the second man on Omaha beach that day.

These men, and many others I’ve encountered throughout my life are veterans. Which makes it kind of embarrassing to me when someone thanks me for my own military service. I’ve never felt that my name should be mentioned in the same breath with those who have gone off to fight in wars and conflicts. My time in service came during Ronald Reagan’s largest peacetime military buildup. I was a Cold Warrior and no one so much as called me bad names, let alone shot at me.

The Air Force gave me three square meals a day for 4½ years, taught me a trade and threw a little money at me for an education. The military exposed me to people I would have never met and sent me to a country — Germany — that I would have never visited. After I got out, my military service made me eligible for a home mortgage. I have a hard time thinking that anyone, especially a regular taxpayer, owes me anything.

Me? A veteran? It doesn’t make sense.

But sometimes it takes a child to make us realize our follies.

For the past several years, Route 66 Elementary School has staged a Veterans Day celebration. I’ve managed to avoid the event in past years — like I said, it wasn’t something I felt I deserved. My kids wouldn’t let it go this year. They especially wanted to make sure that I stood up with all the other Air Force veterans.

I know the feeling of feeling pride for the accomplishments of a child of mine. I’ve had the pleasure of feeling the pride from a parent. But never had I encountered the pride a child feels for a parent. It was an odd and humbling feeling. Perhaps it was something that I had never taken the time to contemplate.

But there they were, my sons, showing me how proud they were to have had a father who once served in the U.S. Air Force. They both know — I’ve told them myself — that I sacrificed very little. The people we need to honor on Veterans Day are men like John Hoover, Dave Hesse and Mike McKinney, I tell them. And they know.

I’ve heard older generations talk about the youth and how they don’t understand the sacrifices veterans have made. Nothing could be further from the truth. These kids, especially the ones at Route 66, understand perfectly the freedoms they enjoy and who made it possible. You can credit their teachers and their parents.

If you don’t believe me, just show up next year for the school’s Veterans Day assembly and listen to hundreds of small voices sing and recite poems. If it doesn’t move you, then you don’t appreciate the sacrifice veterans have made for this country.

Myself included.

The Netflix Effect

“Great Expectations” was serialized in the the periodical “All the Year Round” from December 1860 to August 1861. As far as we know, Charles Dickens wasn't harassed by fans for not giving up the whole thing at once. Not that he could have, he wrote it as he went along, only being ahead on the weekly installations by about a month.

A fashionable Charles Dickens

George R.R. Martin has been working on the sprawling “A Song of Fire and Ice” saga since 1996. “A Feast for Crows,” the fourth book in the series, was published in 2005. The next installment, “A Dance With Dragons,” was published six years later in 2011 and Martin has given no indication when the final two books in the series will be done.

Fans are upset with him. They want the whole epic story, and they want it now. Martin, for his part, has responded by not producing any new novels in the series and stating that they be out when he's good and ready.

Writers must have beards.

Dickens was fortunate – he didn't have the Netflix effect to deal with.

Netflix streams programing to our computers or television sets. Much of the programming available on Netflix are complete episodes of old television programs, and even original programs. So, if you want to watch all episodes of “Breaking Bad” in one sitting, you can. Netflix upped the ante with new episodes of “Arrested Development” and original series like “House of Cards” and “Orange is the New Black.”

So not only are we in a new era of epic storytelling with the creation of hundreds of hours of television, but it is all delivered to us instantly. That gives the illusion that the creative process is almost as instantaneous. Nothing about creating a work is instant, but the public wants its appetite fed.

It's convenient to blame Netflix for this, but the process started years ago with the release on DVD of seasons of televisions series. Except if you bought the set, you were probably a fan to begin with and probably already watched the show. With Netflix, you can sample something, then watch the whole thing from beginning to end. My wife does this, I don't have the patience. I generally like my television episodes to be self-contained stories. Large story arcs force me to become vested in characters I may or may not want to dedicate time to. I'm not against the idea, though, mostly when it comes to what I read. I must admit to having enjoyed the Matt Helm series by DonaldHamilton. (And the fact that the last one was written 30 years ago, so I don't have to wait for the next one to come out.) I was the kind of kid who would go to the public library to check out the book the teacher was reading in class. I hated to wait. I read all the Encyclopedia Brown series at once, and read the first three “Dune” books one after the other.

As I was writing my first book, “Blind Man's Bluff,” all I could wonder is why anyone would want to write a series featuring the same characters. I was so sick of my creation by the time I finished that I didn't want to speak to them anymore.

But then I started my second novel, “Time in the World.” The intention was to write just one and be done. A funny thing happened, though. It turned out there was more to the story than I had thought. I found that I liked the characters and the “world” I had created. As soon as I finished, I wrote out a detailed outline for two more books and made a couple of changes to foreshadow what I had planned.

With this book, I didn't give much thought to trying to sell it to a publisher – I didn't think any would take a chance on a time travel series from a new writer. So I published it by myself without high expectations. I thought it was pretty decent for what it was. But then I became pleasantly surprised that people have liked it. So much that I've been confronted by the Netflix effect.

“Loved the book,” was the essence of numerous comments. “Is the next one done yet?”

The answer, of course, is no. It's not done. I haven't even really started it and as a new fiction writer, I kind of feel like I'm letting momentum slip away. It'll be at least a year – and that's being optimistic – before I can have “Time Stand Still” done and out. The reason is because I'm working on a different project; one that's been on my radar for two years and one that I'll be shopping around for a publisher and agent and all that jazz. (It's that good.)

The trouble is that it's been slow going on getting it done. Lots of different responsibilities have been pulling at me and I've missed a couple of my self-imposed deadlines. Meanwhile, I get phone calls imploring me to finish my sequel.

“I've got to know what happens before I die,” one woman told me.

I'm flattered, and humbled. There's a part of me saying I should accommodate the few fans I've been able to acquire and put my current project on hold. The obstinate part of me, though, wants to complete what I've started before moving on to the next thing.

What would you do?

Line!

“For what else is the life of man but a kind of play in which men in various costumes perform until the director motions them offstage?” – Erasmus, The Praise of Folly, 1511

There are no original thoughts, it seems. But it feels original when we think of things ourselves; and while Eramus may have first put to paper the concept of the world being a stage, Shakespeare did sort of pick up the idea and run with it. Regardless of who gets credit, I think about the concept from time to time.

Shakespeare started his “all the world's a stage” declaring we are “merely players” making exits and entrances. He then goes on to explain the seven roles a man plays throughout a lifetime. It's very famous, and if you've never read it, you should. Those seven are: the infant, the school boy, the lover, the soldier, the justice, the old man and the second child. Let's just say that I'm more than half-way through that list. But that's not what bothers me.

I agree that the world is a stage and we all play our parts, it's just that neither Erasmus nor Shakespeare say anything about all the roles we play at the same time. I feel sometimes that I'm in a repertory company. I'm a father, a husband, an employee, a boss, a friend, a son, a writer, an editor, a journalist and a man to name a few. These roles come together a lot, but many times I need to keep them separate.

For instance, a joke I make around the house is to complain that I'm an award-winning newspaper editor and well-respected within the community; but I get no such respect at home – I still have to clean the toilets, take out the garbage and my two sons are experts and the “teen eye roll” as if to indicate I'm a complete idiot. Robin, my wife, and Connor, my 16-year-old son, enjoy whispering, pointing at me and laughing. I usually have no idea what it is about me they find humorous, but it's not very respectful.

I'm fortunate to have chosen a wife who does respect and love me, but will not put up with any hubris. She keeps me humble, and the kids follow her lead. Outsiders may not understand that dynamic, but I encourage it – I don't mind being silly and I want my boys to understand that there is nothing wrong with laughter, and being able to laugh at yourself is the best way to deflect the sting of an insult. It's my role at home and at the core, the closest to the me I see in the mirror.

At the office, I'm a manager. I admit that I've never been reluctant to be a manager, it's always something I thought I would do well. It's not always enjoyable, there are daily decisions that must be made, you have to be able to lead people toward the same goal. Worst of all, you sometimes have to be an asshole. It's a role, and it has to be played.

Another role I've picked up lately is of “author.” That's the most public and, honestly, the one I enjoy the most. I want people to read what I write; and more importantly, it's cooler when I get money to do so. To that end, I maintain a somewhat public persona. I don't swear like I normally do, I don't get caught up in political or religious arguments on social media or in person. With every person who encounters me being a potential customer, why would I antagonize half of them? I know some writers who have no qualms about that, and that is fine. It's just not an image I want to portray.

Anyone who's read any of my fiction will come away with a general positive impression. That's a conscious effort, not because I don't appreciate the dark side of things. It's because there are plenty of people out there who do the dark stuff much better than I ever could. I like to think that what I bring to the table is a sly chuckle and maybe a tear of recognition. There's room, and an audience, for what I do. At least I hope there is; and if there isn't, I'm fine with that.

This may seem to imply that I don't have political or religious rants stored up in my brain, or a past that has been checkered with acts that I'm not necessarily proud of, nor am I ashamed. I am who I am, I've done what I've done and that's that. That doesn't mean I need to broadcast it to the whole world. (Ah, you say, but doesn't a writer write about what he knows, and isn't some of those characters and situations you write about at least a little bit autobiographical? The answer is a simple “yes,” but more times than not, the answer is “no.” I do like to make stuff up.)

So how do all these characters I play deal with each other? How does the insecurity of the long-grown child sit side-by-side with the confidence it takes to be a newspaper editor? Or manage people? Or be a father? Or write books?

You got me, I'm just trying my best to play the roles I've been given, and most of the time it feels like an improvisational exercise. If there's a script, no one's ever given me one.

"Achromatopsia," an excerpt of a short story

Rich stood outside the men's room on the promenade level at the southern end of the Battlestar Resort and Casino. That wasn't the casino's actual name – that was Skyy or Cloud or something stupid like that. Rich had sneaked in with the use of an access pass he'd found in a garbage can on the street level near the escalator taking those who were lucky enough to access the casino, which catered to only the high rollers and where Rich had once been a bathroom attendant. He had been replaced by a Furman Service Aide. A robot – although no employee is allowed to call them robots because the customers don't like the term.

The pass was found under an uneaten boat of nachos that Rich saw a frat boy throw in the garbage before heading up. Rich wasn't normally in the habit of digging food out of the garbage – he hadn't thought he was that desperate. His empty stomach told him otherwise as he stood guarding the trash can so that no one else could grab the nachos. In his mind, a debate raged. He knew a line would soon be crossed, a line into poverty. It wouldn't be long before someone threw something else in the can, pushing the nachos further down.

He made a quick grab lest anyone see him. Stuck to the bottom of the boat was the coveted pass. He saw what it was and quickly pocketed it, moving away from the bottom of the escalator. The nachos were cold and the cheese nearly solid, but he ate them without much thought of their condition. As he ate in the shade of fake tree, he suspiciously looked around. People with lost passes usually came looking for them.

When he felt it was safe, he pulled the pass from his pocket. It was embossed with the Battlestar's name, but looked different from the normal employee or visitor passes. It was dark blue with a cloud on it. Having worked in the casino, he knew the pass had a limited lifespan and once was discovered missing would be deactivated. He would have to act now if he hoped to gain access to the promised land.

He looked above to see where the Battlestar was, and spied it about a mile to the north, hovering 450 feet above the Strip and supported by its five-foot thick rails on either side of the empty 8-lane road below. The hotel and casino moved on 20-foot wheels at a nice 1.2 miles per hour. It only stopped when it reached its northern and southern terminus twice a day, and then only to change directions and go in the opposite direction. Rich could see why it was called Battlestar; it looked like one of those space ships he saw in movies when he was a kid.

How long had it been since he'd seen a movie? Probably a decade or more.

The decision was made and he moved to the escalator. It took him up 100 feet to the first platform – anyone could go that far. At the platform he boarded another escalator, then another and another until he found himself at the entrance of Ceasar's. It seemed hotter up here, if Vegas could get hotter.

Rich had two choices – wait until the Battlestar made its way back to this platform, which would be about 10 hours, or enter the upper level of Ceasar's and make his way north on foot by going through all the casinos, which were connected in various manners – walkways, shared doors, bridges that crossed the street below. Keeping a brisk pace, he could catch the Battlestar within an hour, quicker if he ran. Although running might attract attention in a different situation, it was not uncommon to see someone running to catch the Battlestar. If they were really rich, customers could catch a people mover designed to take you to the casino.

“Pass please,” the greeting robot at the door of Ceasar's pleasantly demanded. It was similar to the one that had replaced Rich at his job. He swallowed his anger, he wasn't the only person to lose his job thanks to the robot revolution in Vegas. He should have seen the changes coming, but he was incapable of too much advance planning.

Rich handed over the pass to the robot and swallowed a dry stone in his throat, afraid of what this simple act might alert security forces.

“Welcome to Ceaser's Palace, Mr. Parker. Your 300,000 Battlestar credits are welcome at any of our tables,” the robot said. “Enjoy your stay.”

It handed the card back and gave a subservient bow and extended three of its six arms in a welcoming gesture.

“Uh … thanks,” Rich said, trying his best not to act suspicious. He made it into the casino, and quickly – but not too quickly – made his way north. It was nice to be in the air conditioned comfort of the casino. He gave little thought as to who Mr. Parker might be, but was tempted by the amount of credit on the pass. That temptation would not be satiated, though. Rich knew enough to know that security would easily catch him if he tried to use the pass at a table or in slot machine. His hope was that he would be able to make it to the Battlestar before it was deactivated and security hauled him out.

He had no problems though as he made his way through six crowded casinos, crossing the Strip twice. He made it to the platform at the Sahara in time to catch the tail end of the Battlestar, but was again surprised when he was welcomed in. Only this time, the greeter robot offered to call a transport for him. It was being much more subservient than the others. He turned down “the usual transport” and lost himself in the crowd on the casino.

Rich did not normally attract much attention, he was neither handsome nor ugly, short nor tall, thin nor fat. Despite his dire financial condition, he was still well groomed, as a man who had made a living doling out advice on such things to other men could be. But now he was standing outside the men's room where he had worked for seven years and he didn't know why he was there. That's not quite right, he wanted to destroy the robot that had taken his job. That was the extent of his thoughts – there was no political agenda, no solidarity with his fellow bathroom attendants who were thrown out of work, or even the larger number of dealers, cocktail waitresses, maids, bell boys and such who were displaced by the robots.

“You need to go back to school and learn a new trade,” the HR director had told him when handing Rich is severance check. Rich tried, but he knew that he was nothing more that what he was – a guy who handed out towels and made suggestions on cologne in the men's room. For that, he was paid well enough for a man of his limited intelligence. It was a living.

He was already 56 years old, what else could he do? All of the service jobs were gone or disappearing, replaced by a mechanized workforce that didn't ask for days off. He wasn't smart, had no depth of character and didn't understand much of what he saw of the world. He'd never really had a conversation of any substance in his life, he had no depth. He'd never felt a lover's kiss and never realized he had been missing that until he felt a hand on his arm while he was standing outside the men's room on the south end of the Battlestar casino.

Rich didn't normally care for anyone touching him, but this touch didn't bother him. In fact, it felt good, and nice and warm and if he could have found the words to describe it, it would have been joyous. How do you describe the feeling of love if you've never known it before? It was as if Rich had spent his life only being able to see in black and white and then … bright, vivid color.

In his ear, he felt a warm breath that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“I'm glad you made it,” a light female voice whispered. He didn't have to look to know who it was, her touch told him. But he had to see her. Holding his arm was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen – maybe 30 or even younger. Her hair was as black as a raven and her eyes as blue as the sky.

He knew her, but didn't know how he knew her. Her name was Parker but Rich didn't know her first name. He looked into her eyes and was lost in the possibilities of the world with her flashed through his mind. He knew what she wanted him to do.

“Make it stop,” she whispered in his ear. “You understand?”

He nodded and she was gone and he already missed her.

Two thoughts entered his mind, but only one became an obsession. Rich had never known love until that moment and he would do anything to get it back.

Book Review: "ARIA: Left Luggage" by Geoff Nedler

Writers have been working at destroying mankind since the Epic of Gilgamesh was written more than 4,000 years ago. It's a genre that has never lost its popularity, and with each new generation comes a new way to kill off the majority of the population of the world. Maybe it's a secret thrill of most writers – who spend their time working alone – to want to kill off all those people who wouldn't buy a book.

Despite the reasoning for the proliferation of apocalyptic fiction, and despite the tried and true formula, it still makes for interesting fiction because it gives an author a chance to traumatize his heroes. And as we all know, that trauma can make for a gripping story.

Such is the case with Geoff Nelder's “ARIA: Left Luggage.”

The formula is there as created in its post-modern template by Stephen King with “The Stand.” This is not to say that Nelder is unoriginal, far from the case. Within the basic formula you find comfort which gives Nelder wiggle room to play around with the genre.

In ARIA, the destruction of mankind comes in the form of a suitcase apparently hurled towards our Big Blue Marble by aliens hanging out in the outer reaches of the solar system. The case is picked up by the international crew of the International Space Station. Instead of tossing it back to its owners or destroyed – as suggested by the plucky mission specialist Jena – the case is sent back to Earth where it is promptly opened. Nelder could have unleashed any sort of hell on the planet but chose a virus that makes people forget up to a year of their lives every week.

The first third of the book deals with the ramifications of this, jumping between characters as they deal with this virus. Nelder handles this necessary component of apocalyptic fiction just fine. At times the jumping around amongst the dozen or so characters or situations seems rushed, but that's understandable. We need to understand how losing our collective memory at such a fast rate would affect things. One chapter that especially hits home is a diabetic trying to get her medication from drug stores where the pharmacists have all forgotten to show up for work.

As he gets to the meat of the story, Nelder focuses on Ryder Nape, a documentary maker and journalist, who with his girlfriend, his boss and his girlfriend's colleague escape infection by heading to a university study site set in the Welsh countryside. Ryder and his group are in contact with the astronauts at the space station and with a girl in Australia who seemingly is immune to the virus. (I mention her in passing not because she has anything to add to the story, but will probably be important in Left Luggage's sequel.)

There really are no surprises in this story, but I'll refrain from giving up the ending. I think it's fair to say that the space station crew eventually makes it to Wales and a possible cure for the virus makes its way to Earth. Surprising plot twists are overrated in fiction and many times are forced without any reason. I like to be led in any direction an author is willing to send me and I like to be engaged.

Nelder did a great job with this. Once I started reading I wanted to finish, and while I wondered where Antonio would pop up after his "death," I was more impressed with the creation and genesis of all the characters. I'm looking forward to reading the second book in this trilogy and hopefully Nelder will hold me until the third.

Tools for Everyone!

More than 2.6 million years ago, a Stone Age guy found a rock that was easy to hold and pretty effective at breaking open a nut. His buddies saw his rock and coveted it. So they went looking for rocks of their own, and what they found was different rocks that were good at different things. Then one guy struck upon the notion of putting his rock on the end of a stick. He found that by doing this he could use his rock with greater power.

Ever since then, we've been making tools. That's how smart we are and why we've ended up on the top of the food chain. And every time we use a tool, there are a lot of people out there who look at that tool and decide they can make it better. Unfortunately, not many of us have access to a machine shop to fabricate something, but that doesn't mean we can't use what we have on hand to customize our tools.

One such man was George Ballas. In the early 1970s Ballas had a problem.

George Ballas and a popcorn can

He wanted to trim the grass around the trees in his Houston yard and thought he had a better way to do it than the standard hand-powered clippers. He had a power edger that had a rotating head and struck on an idea. Using a popcorn can, he punched holes all around it and tied short lengths of heavy-duty fishing line to the can. He then attached the edger to his edger using some nuts and bolts in his garage and, viola! The first Weed Eater.

No one wanted to market his idea, so Ballas started his own company, which by 1976 was bringing in $41 million a year.

I admire Ballas' work and initiative, but I wonder if he ever thought he could have done better. String trimmers are pretty much the standard for a tool that trims grass a weed and it is probably one of the most frustrating tools to use. According to the user instructions, the automatic line feed will easily extend shortened lines. This is hardly true. I've had expensive trimmers and cheap ones and dealing with the line is maddening. I spend more time futzing around with the line than I do trimming weeds.

And the weeds around my house are a bit more hearty than the grass at a Houston home. The plastic line on a trimmer doesn't last long around here. Most of the time, the weeds on our property are brown. But then monsoon season hits the desert and weeds grow quickly.

Weeds everywhere!

I had a string trimmer with a little two-stroke engine that worked fine when I rigged an after-market head with plastic cutting blades that could take off a limb. The head wasn't compatible with the trimmer, but using a bolt and a nut and cutting here and there, I made it work. I'm not trying to brag that I'm some sort of engineering genius; I'm not different than anyone else who uses tools. In a prior life, I worked as an indentured servant to my father, a plumber and electrician. After my time with him was up, I spent a decade or so working in heating and air conditioning. In our shop was just about every sort of tradesman you can think up, and each one of them had customized tools to do their jobs. And if any one of them lost or broke a tool, there was anger. Because I worked on equipment with motors and pulleys and such, I had a special wheel puller I'd had a welder friend make for me. I don't have it anymore, giving it to a fellow I worked with. I never wanted to use it again; I was going to school to become a writer.

When you own a home, though, you've either got to know how to fix things, or pay someone to fix it for you. I prefer to fix things myself, which means that when it comes to landscaping needs, I'm the man.

I'd rigged my gas-power trimmer so that it would do the job I needed it to do. A couple years ago, the shaft broke and I fixed it. I could use it until my hands shook and the engine got so hot that it would burn my arm. (Which, come to think of it, doesn't happen when the fishing line breaks all the time.) Of course, when the blades broke or wore out, it took a half hour to change them.

Things break

I never really liked that trimmer, but I was stuck with it. The engine was loud and the vibration hurt my hands. I determined the next time I got a trimmer, it would be an electric one – less vibration and sound. Then a couple weeks ago, I was doing a little weed cutting and the head fell off. I could have fixed it somehow, but I took the opportunity to get a weed trimmer that I liked.

No such luck. No one makes what I wanted.

So I've got a brand new customized trimmer that still has a few bugs to be worked out. For some reason, the good folks at Black and Decker made a trimmer that is not conducive for do-it-yourself modifications. I did it anyway.

I worked fine for about 20 square feet until the plastic cutting blades struck a concrete stepping stone broke the head. So now it's back to the hardware store for more parts.

Too bad I can't just use a rock to cut the weeds.

Do we miss Harry Potter?

On my desk, I have a quote from the great author Roald Dahl. It reads: “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”

The quote is there to remind me to be constantly on the search for magic, because it is truly special when you see it. And being a fan of Dahl’s since I could read, that magic always found a way into the words he wrote.

Dahl died in 1990, which was seven years before Harry Potter was unleashed on the world. A cursory reading could lead you to believe that there isn’t much in common between “James and the Giant Peach” and the Potter novels, but you would be mistaken. At the core of most Dahl books and the world of Hogwarts are stories about friendship, loyalty and tenacity to do the right thing when doing otherwise would be much easier.

They also are about believing in the hidden magic surrounding our lives.

It was about 3 a.m.on a Friday a couple of years ago when my wife and oldest son made it home after a midnight screening of the latest, and last, Harry Potter movie.

I rolled over, acknowledged they were home, happy they safely found their way back and returned to my slumbers. And in the intervening week, I’ve been told how “awesome” the movie is, and how sad it is that the series is over.

No more Harry Potter and his friends, except of course for all the books and DVDs which will be around for the rest of my life.

Am I sad it’s all over? Not especially; I think J.K. Rowling, who wrote the books, was wise to end it all with everyone wanting more. It remains to be seen whether she will keep her promise and let the work stay finished. After all, Arthur Conan Doyle brought back Sherlock Holmes after he had killed him. Edgar Rice Burroughs kept bringing back Tarzan, and do I need to go into the whole “Star Wars” fiasco?

I wouldn’t call myself a “fan” of Harry Potter, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the books, and, to a lesser extent, the movies. I’ve read all the books a couple of times, the first to make sure that they were appropriate to read to my oldest son when he was little, the second to him directly and the third time to my youngest son.

It’s a good, epic story of good versus evil and it is fairly well-written and engaging. The Harry Potter books are highly derivative of English boarding school novels as well as “Lord of the Rings.” As juvenile fiction, it is nearly perfect; its protagonists have special powers, get to carry deadly weapons and confront strange creatures. Its young characters, we are told, are all special in some way despite their own failings. How could all of this not appeal to a kid?

The first book, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” was unleashed on the public in the summer of 1997. Later that year, my oldest son was born, so we didn’t really get to reading the books for a couple of years, but it does seem that as long as there have been children in our house, Harry’s been there as well.

One year, the oldest dressed as Harry for Halloween, complete with a Hogwarts robe, round glasses and a scar drawn on his forehead. The costume was recycled a year or two later when the youngest decided that he would dress as Ron Weasley, Harry’s best friend. (I secretly cheered because I’ve always had an affinity to sidekicks, best friends and little brothers.)

Each time, I fashioned a “wand” to go with the costume, and through the years have had them pointed at me while a child screamed a spell at me, “Expelliarmus!” Sometimes, I would act as if the spell actually worked.

While I’m not a fanatic for the series and I hope to one day never have to read it again — you start to see the author’s idiosyncrasies after awhile — I would not discourage anyone from letting their children read them.

While the whole premise is that there are witches and wizards out there who really fly on broomsticks and make potions, the real appeal is encouraging readers to seek magic in the most unlikely of places.

Ch-ch-changes

This day started 51 minutes ago with a dog waking me by licking my hand. She had to go out a pee and since I have a bunch of things to do today, I determined that my canine alarm clock had done its job.

It's Sunday, which the Bible says is a day of rest. This being modern times, there is very little resting going on. There are chores to do and I dived into cleaning of the dirty dishes, left over from several days of neglect. In our house, an anticipation of the weekend is a good reason to let dishes and garbage pile up. I act as if this really annoys me, but usually do little to combat the problem. After a work week, I usually just want to relax. That makes for a wasted Saturday, and by Sunday, I feel the weight of my guilt for not trimming the weeds around the house, cleaning out the shed and, yep, doing the dishes.

Cleaning dishes doesn't bother me that much other than it seems like it has to be done too frequently. I imagine I'll be finishing this day by doing the dishes. But this morning I didn't mind. It was quiet, everyone was still in bed. The sun was just coming up over the ridge to our little valley in a fiery orange. The light was reflected off the remnants of storm clouds in the north and you could just tell by looking that summer is winding down.

That doesn't hurt my feelings in any way – I'm generally not a big fan of summer with its heat and bugs and sunburns. Fall is my season and with this one I know change is on the way. I can feel it like an anxiety nagging in the pit of my stomach. I've got a sense of what changes are coming because they've already started. Some are being forced upon me and my family, others I've tried to control myself the best I can.

This will be the fourth major change in my life, and they always seem to come in 10-year increments in birthday years that end in eight. That means I faced changes when I was 18, 28, 38 and now that I'm 48, it's on again. Change is constant, I know this, but as humans we like to have some things remain the same – it gives us comfort. I can deal with those small changes and for the most part welcome them. The major changes, though, can sometimes take years to occur and the outcomes are sometimes questionable.

When I was 18, I joined the US Air Force. That's a pretty jarring change in lifestyle, but the transition from high school student to Airman Rory started months before the first drill instrucotr was yelling at me. It started with my parents separation and divorce in which I went from the relative comfort of a two-parent home to having to work so I'd have money for rent and food in a matter of weeks. The Air Force was a welcomed change.

But the next 10 years was spent following my whims, which was pretty much involved either a party or a girl. I won't deny it; I had fun. But I had no depth, no plans; and by 28 I realized I had to change that. I had to grow up and do something about my life, otherwise I was going to end up being that middle-aged barfly everyone make fun of. I was 28 when I went back to school to get a degree and pursue a career in journalism and a home life of marriage and kids. By 38, I had forgotten who I was at my core. My ambition was damaging my relationships and my career. The changes were more internal then, but just as important.

And now I'm 48. I decided not long after my birthday back in January that I was going to control my changes – I was going to make a go of being a novelist. I'd played around with that my whole life, it seems, and now I was going to give it a shot. There is nothing more I'd rather do than write my own stories for a living; dealing with the public on those terms only selling my own product. I've got two books out there now, and while they aren't best sellers they have brought me a couple of bucks and lots of encouragement. I honestly think I can make this happen where I'll be able to make a decent living off it, or maybe not. Here's what I know, though – every goal I've ever set for myself I've been able to accomplish. I know achieving goals take hard work and discipline. I can do that.

I am a little worried what 58 might bring, but that's 10 years down the road.

A taste of Golden

What follows is the first 10 or so pages of the novel I'm working on, which is tentatively titled "Golden." Truth be told, I'm not too hot on that title, but have yet to come up with anything better.
I'd certainly appreciate any constructive comments anyone has to make. I realize that there is not anything really to the story, but my aim is to draw readers in and establish characters and settings.

R

Sound first.

Birds, maybe grackles. A sparrow perhaps. Not a finch.

A raven chuckling? Not easy to hear, but there it was.

A dog barking, but not incessantly; more a happy nipping like a best buddy welcoming his boy home from school.

The dinging bell of Mercer's Drug Store. Chatting girls. Boys and such and giggles and an occasional squeal: teenagers.

A car. Fast car. Loud, really. The radio is playing an Elvis tune. Treat Me Right? No. Teddy Bear.

Ahh, smell now. Sensual, inviting.

Summer. Lilac bush nearby. Bread baking. Freshly mowed grass.

Billy Watson kept his eyes shut a little longer, savoring the sounds and smells. Once those senses were satiated, he opened his eyes. The sights were still blurry but soon came into focus showing him at the corner of Main and First in front of the Golden Bank and Trust. He checked himself carefully and found his body encased in a gray suit with a red tie. Arms and legs seemed to be working fine. He smiled; another successful jump into Golden, where he served as the town doctor. He checked his watch where it was counting down from 5:57:45, his standard six-hour shift had begun.

The Bank & Trust was the second largest building in Golden, and where his office was located. None of the people walking up and down the wide sidewalks noticed him or acknowledged he had appeared out of thin air. In the distance, Billy could see storm clouds forming and a booming of thunder rolled over the town. It occasionally rained in Golden, but the real show was in the lighting and thunder, which would never cause any harm. Instead of turning and walking into the Bank & Trust, where he had an office on the second floor, Billy hurriedly took off to the park.

Billy whistled as he crossed the street in front of the hardware store and hopped the curb. From the distance, he could hear the rumbling of what he knew was a 1932 Ford Coupe painted candy apple red with flames on the side getting ready to make a run down main street. The car belonged to Jerry Walker and Dan Stevens was probably helping with the tune up. Who else could it be? Ever since Jerry had gotten here, he spent his time working on and driving street rods. Jerry had found a kindred soul in Dan. In the material world he had been Gerald Boucher, a bald accountant who every day went to work in a gray office and worked with gray people. In Golden, Jerry would always be 17 and have an affection for fast cars and teenage girls with pony tails and poodle skirts. Dan Driscoll was the perfect sidekick for Jerry. In life, there are always leaders and followers; Dan was a follower. He spent a lifetime as a mechanic in a Dodge dealership, and although he obviously knew more about how a car worked than Jerry ever would, Dan was always there to hand Jerry a wrench or lend a hand when a transmission needed to be changed. Neither Jerry nor Dan questioned their relationship, it was what it was and the pair were inseparable. The only issue Billy ever had with them was trying to keep them from racing up and down the streets in their hot rods, but there really wasn't anything he could do to stop the friends.

Walking down the sidewalk to the park, Billy realized he was whistling the tune of Red River Valley – an old cowboy song and one of his grandmother’s favorites. The song was about loss and leaving. Somewhat fitting for Golden. Billy’s mother used to sing it to him when he was very young. The song had been taught to her by Billy’s grandmother. Before disease had taken her body and left her mind intact.

Billy didn’t know his grandmother as she once was. She was a ghostly figure through most of his life as his parents struggled with the stress of maintaining a household under the shadow of her illness. He would look through photo albums containing little moments of her time captured, printed and organized chronologically. Billy had wondered how someone whose charm sprang forth from the two dimensional confines of a photograph could become a skeletal human form cosigned to a life hooked to numerous life-maintaining machines in a nursing home. An existence, yes, but not living. Golden was designed for living.

Now Billy was going to meet the grandmother he had only knew through pictures and the recollections of his own mother. He was nervous. Would she like him? Would she even know who he was?

The walk to the park was short – most everything in Golden was only a brief stroll. A few residents chose to drive, but mostly just the ones who enjoyed driving. Billy headed north on Main Street, past the Chamber of Commerce, the Town Hall and Mercer's Drug Store, which had a soda fountain and a couple of booths where you could grab a bite to eat while waiting for your pills. There were a couple of people in the drug store, and Billy waved as he passed by. He knew each resident by name. He knew where they came from, their hobbies, their victories and defeats. And with most, he knew about what haunted their dreams. He was, after all, their doctor; although he knew little about their physical ailments. He was more interested in their brains. In Golden, people didn't get sick, but sometimes their minds did.

He took a left on Third Street, after stopping for a minute to look in the window of the five-and-dime. Third, like all of the ancillary streets in Golden, was shaded by a canopy of elms lining both sides of the street. A small boy in a pedal car drove straight toward him and Billy stepped to the side without acknowledging him. The homes he passed all had well-groomed yards, huge front porches and fresh paint. He made a mental note, though, to tell Ollie that maybe they looked too perfect. Maybe he would ask some of the residents what they thought. Golden, at times, seemed a little too perfect and maybe that's what kept it from being ideal.

He finally came to a low white picket fence surrounding Golden’s main park. The park took up a whole block and was dotted with trees, a gazebo and a playground. More residents sat on park benches and waved at Billy as he passed by. Lillian Weaver stopped him to complain about her hands. She looked to be about 20 years old, with dark hair and startling blue eyes. Her hands, however, looked to belong to an 80-year-old woman. Billy held them for a moment, inspecting them, then told Lillian to drop by his office in about two hours and he would see what he could do. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, which caused him to blush, although no one in Golden would have been able to see him blush. He begged off Lillian and made his way to the playground.

A small girl with rust-colored hair was busy building a sand castle. The girl’s pink pail and matching shovel were working furiously at scooping sand and packing it as she sang the same song Billy had been whistling a moment before.

“Ruth,” he called out. She looked up, unable at first to determine where the voice had come from, almost deciding it hadn’t existed at all. He called out again and walked toward her. She looked up at him when he was four paces away and smiled. Billy had a friendly face, that was almost a requirement to be a doctor in Golden, although the face he wore there wasn't really his own. He appeared much older than his own 34 years.

“Hello,” she said. “You look familiar, do I know you? I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”

“My name is Billy Watson. I work here. I'm a doctor. I help people like you – to make sure you’re okay and answer any questions.” He knelt beside her so that he could look her in the eye, to see if there was that spark to which he'd become familiar; the one that told him a patient was able to understand Golden. Her green eyes studied him carefully. Her face was young and smooth, but her eyes looked upon him with the affection that a grandmother reserves for her grandchildren. His patients, no matter how young they looked, were all old souls. They had all seen so much in their long lives.

“Where am I? I feel like I’ve been asleep for such a long time. Is this … heaven?”

She got up and brushed the sand off her coveralls. Billy stood almost two feet taller than her. Her sun-bleached brown hair was tied back in a braided pony tail. Her freckles looked as if they had been splattered on by the light flick of a paint brush – she was a fair-skinned girl who had spent too many summer days out in the sun. Her coveralls came from a different era, more work clothes than a fashion trend.

“Where am I?” she repeated.

Billy pondered the question. He was never sure any answer he gave was satisfactory to Golden’s new residents. He was never quite sure how to tell his patients that their brains and bodies were hooked into two supercomputers, and that millions of cell-sized electronic microbes coursed through their blood stream and attached themselves to nerve endings, keeping their bodies alive while Golden was forged in their minds. Most new residents reacted with indifference when they learned their corporeal bodies were actually floating around in a vat of an electrically charged glutamate goo in an induced coma. Most of Golden’s residents suffered from diseases like ALS, cystic fybrosis or renal failure – disorders that robbed them of their bodily functions and left their minds to suffer. Most were old and came here for a retirement they never thought could exist. One computer watched over their bodies and the other transformed their fantasies into something tangible.

“It’s not heaven, here. It’s kind of like a dream that you can control. This town is called Golden, and it was created for people like you,” Billy said.

“Like me?”

“People whose bodies don’t respond to their thoughts anymore. This place was designed as a way to give folks like you a nice retirement.”

She nodded. Most knew from the beginning that Golden wasn’t genuine. Most remembered their long fall into their own thoughts, where the real world repeatedly folded in on itself until it made no sense at all.

“This is new technology?” There was a trace of excitement in her voice making Billy smile. She seemed just as he had imagined, inquisitive and not at all archaic. He nodded his head and she immediately asked how it worked. Billy explained the basics as they walked down back down Third Street, to Main and south to Elm.

Billy explained, Golden was a small town laid out in a simple grid of 15 tree-lined streets. Main Street stretched north and south a half mile in each direction from First Street. Going north, the east-west streets were numbered up to five. South of First, the streets were named for trees – Elm, Oak, Ash, Sycamore and Poplar. The east-west streets were two blocks long. Running parallel to Main were four streets, McKinley and Foster Roads to the east and Baker and Gerris to the west. There was no need for many of the buildings, but there was an abundance of parks, tall shade trees and a few places to throw a line into the water. It was the kind of mid-century American town found only in Hollywood backlots to signify a time that had long since passed. It was the ideal community in the minds of its residents, and its creators.

Main Street was lined with businesses with big windows and brick facades. There was the drug store, of course, and a hardware store. There was also a fix-it shop, butcher shop and an auto shop. There was a fire station, which was really extraneous because there were no fires in Golden. And there were also dentists, lawyers and doctors. There was the town hall, which was rarely used, and the largest building was the school at the very north of Main Street.

It was a small town and Billy loved to walk along its pastoral streets to clear his mind. Golden was populated by anywhere from 15 to 42 patients and close to 300 Seegees, computer generated “people” who looked liked anyone and no one. Golden lived up to its name. The temperature was usually comfortable, the sun shined constantly. Billy waved at two of his patients, Carmen Lugo and Ken Franklin, who were holding hands and sharing an ice cream as they walked. He met with all of the patients at least once a week to make sure everything was going okay, some people broke down mentally – they couldn’t handle Golden. Some had other physical problems that manifested itself in Golden, but no one had ever been pulled out of the town once they were placed in. All residents knew that their time in Golden was temporary and that Billy was their Grim Reaper – the man who would eventually come to take them their deaths.

All new residents were taken to Fred’s house for an unofficial orientation. It was easier for a resident of Golden to explain the town and its rules; and no one had been a resident of Golden longer than Fred. Billy was just a visitor to the town and could not use the computer interface in the same way residents could. While residents had millions of cell-sized nanoprobes attached to their nerve endings, Billy only had a thousand or so designed to have an eight-hour lifespan. It made it easier for Billy to transition between the two worlds, but it still took a toll on his body.

Before they could make the half-mile walk to Fred's house at the corner of Oak and McKinley, Ruth had grasped how the computers could turn her thought of a Granny Smith into a seemingly real apple. She took a bite and grinned when she tasted a sweet, delicious fruit.

“I haven’t used my real teeth to bite into an apple in years,” she said, taking a second crunchy mouthful. “This is delicious! It's just how I remember!”

“Of course it is, you made it, so it is what you expected,” Billy told her. “The computers work together to stimulate the neurons in your brain to fool you into thinking you just took a bite of apple. You can even put a worm in it if you want.”

“Why would I want something like that?”

“You would be surprised what people want when they come to Golden. It isn’t always pleasant. Almost everyone who lives here are suspicious of comfort and will put a thorn under the saddle just to make sure they are still alive. Plus, there are some things about Golden – some rules – that keep things from getting out of control. As you probably noticed, the rules of gravity are the same here as in the real world. We can't have everyone flying around and picking up buses, you know.”

Billy didn't say anything about the problems that arose in Golden from time to time; the invincibility most patients come to feel or even the sadness some residents experience because they know none of if is real. Better to keep those things to himself, he thought, no sense in frightening Ruth. He did explain that as with everything mechanical, there had been bugs to work out. Some people, especially those with a psychosis, didn’t adapt well to Golden. People suffering from a brain injury or suffered from diseases of the brain like Alzheimer's usually were missing important parts than to be anything other than savants in Golden. But the bigwigs with the Golden Foundation were hoping research Billy was doing as part of his job would one day make them viable patients.

“Who pays for all this?” Ruth asked, finishing her apple. “How did I get chosen? I can't afford anything like this.”

“Golden is funded through several sources, but mostly from private investors who hope some day that they will be able to make a profit on the service. The government, though, holds a pretty tight rein on what we do here. Through a charter granted to the Golden Foundation by the USDA, Health and Human Services and a half-dozen other agencies we are required to share everything we learn here and look out for the safety of our residents. And,” Billy said, not wanting to go too deep into the interference the government imposed on the Golden Foundation, “in order to operate, we are required to invite at least half of the population of Golden from a pool of candidates who cannot pay. For this, Uncle Sam pays us a grant. About half of our current residents are paying their own way, but it's a small amount compared to the actual cost.”

“Really?” she said. “How many residents are there now?”

“With you, we now have thirty-two, but we should be getting more in the next couple of weeks.”

“Paying customers?”

“I'm not at liberty to say,” Billy said. It was difficult to keep information from a blood relative, but rules were rules. “We respect our residents' privacy, and as a matter of course, that was one of the issues that held up our charter. The government was demanding too much access to information on the activities of our residents.”

Ruth thought for a moment then reached into her pocket a pulled out some bubble gum. She opened the wax packaging and stuck the gum in her mouth, relishing each chew while silently checking out the comic adventures of Bazooka Joe.

“So there's no cameras in here watching my every move, then?”

“Well,” Billy explained, “seeing as we are essentially talking to each other's minds, there wouldn't technically be any cameras. There is no record of your activities in Golden and the only thing we monitor is your vital signs. It's difficult to track 'movement' within Golden and the Foundation's board agrees that is an extraneous expense; we are unable to 'see' what parts of the town you explore. Your privacy is important to us, so you don't need to worry about that. For you, Golden offers whatever you want.”

“So I can wish anything into existence. If I want a big car or big boobs, I can have them?”

Billy nodded. “You can have anything you want within reason. There are some things that our computers are not capable of reproducing, but, for the most part, you can fulfill any … desire or dream that was deferred in your youth. We give folks another chance at what they’ve always wanted.”

As they mounted the stairs up to Fred’s porch, Ruth was busy creating a purple Popsicle and putting it into her mouth. Fred was in his usual place on the porch in front of an IBM Selectric typewriter. Billy noticed a half-filled ashtray with discarded marijuana roaches and a bottle of Pepto-Bismal sitting on a TV tray next to the typewriter. Fred hunted and pecked at the keyboard with amazing speed, a technique perfected over many years working a typewriter. Billy cleared his throat as he and Ruth stepped on the porch. Fred quickly removed his hunting finger and held it up, never taking his eyes from the manuscript as the pecking finger kept working. As quick as it was up, it was back at the keyboard. He jabbed the keys furiously, grinning like a madman.

Fred stopped and laughed. He was a tall man with a with unkempt blond and gray hair. The most prominent feature on his face was an unkempt gray beard and mustache. Fred’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief and he always wore an unbuttoned cabana shirt over a plain white T-shirt, which somehow made his little pot belly stand out. As usual, he was wearing cargo shorts and a pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose. While most residents of Golden went out of their way to look young and fresh, Fred went out of his way to to look the opposite, which could never really hide the fact that at one point in his life he had teen idol good looks. That's why he was famous.

“Farts are even funny when you write about them,” he said giggling and taking a swig off the Pepto. Billy couldn’t help but laugh, too. Ruth looked at both men, waiting until she was introduced. Fred remembered he had guests and turned to them, fishing a breathe mint out of his pocket and sticking it in his mouth. The roaches and the ashtray disappeared, Billy knew that Fred liked to keep his smoking hidden – especially from people he didn't know. It was the worse kept secret in Golden.

“Billy!”

“Freddie!” Billy shouted back in the pair’s standard greeting to each other.

“I was just writing about farts, Billy.” Fred took another gulp of the stomach medicine. “Me and the old man had a routine – for the late nightclub shows – he would sneak around the stage while I was making fart noises. We had one bit where he was a guest at a high society party. It always killed, even at some of the classier places we played.”

From behind Billy, Ruth could no longer wait to be recognized.

“You …You’re Freddie McKenzie!” Fred didn’t miss a beat. A hat appeared in his hand above his head as if he had just removed it from his head and he scrunched his face up and gave a weird chortle. In nearly two blinks of an eye, Fred regressed in age, his hair grew in and lightened, the facial hair disappeared and he seemed to grow a little taller. He looked like a college student, his face hairless and fresh.

“I yam?” he said, stretching the words into a comic grin.

Now it was turn for Ruth and Fred to laugh together. Billy was not surprised at his grandmother’s reaction to Fred, all the new residents knew him. To a lot of them, he was Freddie McKenzie of the famous McKenzie Family, stars of stage, screen and especially television, where America watched Fred grow up every Thursday night for 11 years on “Andy and Agnes,” his parents' sitcom. Freddie had the most stellar career of the McKenzie Family, moonlighting as a teen heartthrob when he wasn't on the set. Fred chose his disheveled appearance in Golden because he had said it was what he was most comfortable with and “required the least amount of thought,” he had once told Billy. But every time someone recognized him from his teen idol days, he would easily shift to that image. Billy suspected that Fred spent some of his nights charming some of the female residents as famous Freddie McKenzie, although the older man would never admit that. Of all his patients, Fred was the toughest nut to crack. Most people would talk about everything with Billy. Fred would talk for hours and say almost nothing, so Billy was always careful to observe Fred, looking for small openings in the window to his psyche. And occasionally, Fred would let him see.

Fred may have been a star when he was younger, but he also had talents that reached far beyond fart jokes and hit records. Golden would not have been possible without Fred's genius, nor Freddie's seed money. Billy may not have been confounded by Fred's greeting – he'd seen it several times – but he didn’t expect the little girl standing next to him to turn into a teenager right before his eyes. He knew it was the computers making an adjustment to the Ruth’s concept of self image, just as Fred had done and something Billy had witnessed many times, although rarely with so little effort. Both the reason she aged and the technology to do so both had been Fred's dream and life's work.

“I never missed an episode of 'Andy and Agnes' and I bought all your records,” Ruth said, dancing from side to side with excitement. “I stood in line for three hours once to get your autograph at the Bijou, but you left before I could get to the front of the line. And now you are right here. Are you real, or are you one of those computer generated things Billy was talking about?”

Billy hoped she wouldn’t have too intense of an adrenaline rush, which could cause the computers to get a little confused. When that happened, they sometimes had to take a patient out of Golden and reboot the the resident's avatar. On rare occasions, it could take the whole system down, but that had only occurred once, which is why there is no skydiving allowed in Golden. It was one of the few glitches with the system that Ollie and his team were trying to fix.

“Do you think it would be all right if I got your autograph?” she asked. An autograph book and pen appeared in her hand. Fred grabbed it and began thumbing through it, looking for a blank page while reading the names out loud. Billy had never heard of most of them.

“Ralph Bellamy, good guy. Gloria Grahame, crazy gal. My pop fired her once, you know? She kept showing up on set drunk.” Fred paused on one page. “Johnny Mancini? Who’s that?” Ruth blushed.

“He was my first autograph. Johnny was Tommy in Brigadoon. I had such a big crush on him.”

“Brigadoon, huh? I played Jeff in a revival,” Fred said. “I loved that show. Were you in the show?”

“I played Meg,” Ruth said. “I so wanted to play Fiona, so … Well, Fiona got to kiss Tommy, you know? And that stupid Anita Folsom was Fiona. I was so jealous, they ended up nearly getting married, all because of Brigadoon...”

“Whatever happened to him? To Johnny?” Fred asked. Ruth aged another 10 years in an instant. Her face was not so carefree anymore, and in her eyes, Billy could tell she still loved Johnny Mancini.

“He got killed during the war. Vietnam. His name's on that wall in Washington, but I never got to see it.”

“There's a lot of names on that wall,” Fred said, walking to her and hugging her. After a minute of silent remembrances, Ruth pulled away, older but still attractive. Fred, too, had aged, not quite to his normal look, but close.

“I’m sorry Mr. McKenzie, I didn’t mean to get emotional on you. You just seem like you understand. There aren’t so many of us left, you know?”

“That’s quite all right,” Fred said with a slight bow. Taking her by the elbow, he led her to a small sofa that appeared on the porch. “Why don’t you lay down and take a nap?”

Ruth climbed onto the sofa, closed her eyes and went immediately to sleep. Billy sighed, as she turned back into a little girl once more.