Teaser to a future work...?
Hello...as we're about to enter that time, here's a good update:
First and foremost, the new book, "Searching for Roy Buchanan" is very close to release. No date yet; the script is in the hands of the publisher, and after I finish this, I hope to send additional pages off to you.
And since I'm dealing with the usual holiday madness, I thought you might like to see something else.
What I'm about to offer you can only be read on my blog, here. This is a rough beginning to a story called "Times Best Remembered." This has taken first, two years in my mind to get together; I wrote it earlier this year, and have toyed with it.
As it begins on Christmas Eve, I thought this would be the perfect time to share the beginning, to see what you think of it.
I actually think is probably the best thing I've ever written. Probably will take years to get out, and then beaten into a film script, but I think it has promise.
Let me know what you think.
Part One: Christmas in New York
Chapter 1—Light & Dark
Times Square; the center of New York City, mostly in the minds of those who’d never lived or been there. The place where dreams focused, for people who believed that old song, the one about making it there, and then propelling oneself further into that world.
Christmas Eve; around the gigantic tree, bedecked with hundreds of ornaments, a thousand lights or more were revelers, celebrants of the holiday season, with lip service to the child supposedly born on this night, but more to the gayer, less serious aspects.
Lights flashed across the sky, from the skyscrapers, the billboards and the windows of shops still open. Smaller and less noticed ones flickered as well, from the cameras of tourists taking selfies to broadcast to family and friends back home where they were. Others jammed the sidewalks and streets, partying from club to bar and then the next, and still more hitting those places with last-minute and impulse buys to be had.
There too, the music: holiday sounds, from the traditional to contemporary, the voices of those at Mass and other more staid events, remembering what they were taught about the so-called Holy Night. The overproduced, glitzy versions of schmaltzy songs about winter wonderlands, a reindeer with an improbable nose, and of course Saint Nicholas; no one here seemed to remember the roots of these things, the Pagan Gods and Goddesses that bore these children.
A word to the wise to those less experienced was: when in New York, one dressed and acted as though they lived there. The aim was to not fall prey to the pickpockets, scammers and grifters that plied the city streets, in search of an easy mark.
Amid the well-dressed and heeled, those of the middle and working classes walked, rushed and jostled for position in these streets, as they did in cities across the planet. The chill of December was felt more by these folk, but they accepted cold and this time of year as a part of life. Their breath fogged like smoke or vapor; it rose and dissipated with millions more on this grand night.
And within all these, were the ones that no one noticed, or would admit, even to themselves existed.
The ragged creature shuffled along the sidewalk, her feet taking in the freezing pavement through her battered sneakers. They didn’t even feel as though they were on her feet, these numb to near frostbite. That mattered nothing to her; at least they no longer hurt.
She was surprised she felt anything at all. Cold set in weeks before, and never left her. The thin clothing inside of the wool coat, still not one for this weather, did nothing to protect her from the elements. Her gloves, the fingers torn or cut away by a previous owner weren’t much help, but she flexed her hands and fingers as much as possible to keep some feeling. It gave her something to do.
Her jeans had seen better years, and the wool cap could not keep the long, matted rat’s nest of black hair from being seen. Down over her shoulders it bounced, like dreadlocks.
If anyone chose to look at this gaunt urchin, one might see a face. Thin and long, the jaw line was not completely square, but decently formed. Skin, pale from exposure; a Caucasian but not through and through, because it would have taken a very close look to see there might be a little more in this girl’s lineage.
The eyes were a liquid blue, the black lashes long, even under the body’s duress. The nose, thin, not too large or too small; the lips seemed correct for a female that one might draw a picture of. She was not beautiful by the standards of the day, but she was not ugly, either, apart from her current disposition.
The wind blew down these streets as the girl walked through, unable to find any protection from the buildings, the numerous vehicles or the people who stormed along; they paid no heed to this child, and she did not stop or bother them.
There was no point. As the wind again tore through her, she drew her thin jacket, most of the buttons long gone about her, and kept on. The clouds had thickened throughout the day, she’d noticed, and there was almost no sun from this morning. A winter storm was coming; the first flakes had already begun to fall, glinting with the colors of the Christmas and city lights, and floated down like confetti. They already had begun to collect on the parked cars, SUVs, trucks and taxicabs that lined the block; it would be a bad night.
Again, it didn’t matter. She kept walking, but her head came up slightly. Leaned against a brick wall, near the entrance one of the high end stores, she saw a man. Barely able to stand, in a rough looking jacket and clothes nearly as pathetic as her own, he held out a used McDonald’s cup, asking for spare change. There appeared to be few offerings.
She looked at him as she came abreast: he was black, probably in his twenties, but the life he led made him look forty. Sharp features, in the cheekbones, the prominent nose, damaged teeth behind his lips; his brown eyes stared at this strange one that walked past him.
No words were exchanged, but the two nodded. They understood one another.
The girl turned onto another street, slowly leaving the noises, from the honking of horns and shouts of good cheer to the blaring of stereos, those coming from the vehicles and loudspeakers. Snow, heavier now, along with the wind picked up, and if she could have felt colder, the girl did.
On she walked, with no set destination in mind; hunger gnawed at her insides, her mind seeing every photo and image of food as some euphoric offering. She could smell them, and imagine what they once were like.
But such things were for others. Her bones felt brittle, and the girl wondered she did not break apart and fall into a pile of useless skeleton, skin and hair right here, then dissolve into the pavement, not to be seen again.
Yet something kept her going, all this long time. She didn’t know how she came to New York; only she knew that a thing inside her kept her guided, moving, and in this direction. She could never have put this into words; only that she had to keep going, to find it, whatever “it” might be.
Stiff and nearly frozen, the winds intensified as did the snow. The drifts, blown from off the water now, blasted her and nearly knocked her over. Looking out, she saw lights, many lights on the other side, of more buildings and structures, places she’d never visited and likely would not. Between there and here, the dark, black pit of the Hudson River, with only buoy markers and a small craft or two out on this night.
She looked inland. The girl didn’t know how far out of the city she’d traveled, but now she seemed to be in a neighborhood. Houses, brownstones, large, old places, each one an architectural project of a separate design, and in these lives were being lived.
Yes, she could see in: living rooms, studies, kitchens; perhaps even an old-fashioned drawing room of the kind she had read of in stories. Lamps, ceiling and welcome lights, Christmas candles, and those on the porches show someone lived in these homes. Inside, she could see trees, as decorated and lit as that big one. Beneath these, the girl imagined gifts, presents and items for loved ones.
The walk continued, but with difficulty. Now the storm hit; a whiteout briefly stole her vision, and she felt wet and cold. The few vehicles still on the roads were having a rough go of it; wipers trying to keep windshields clear, headlight beams flicking from high to low to make their way; at least they had somewhere to go.
She found herself on a block not straight, but that curved with this street, around to where she could not see. Before her were a number of these houses once more; between the street and here was a side road, where cars were parked. Some were already covered in snow; unoccupied spaces still existed, but the four houses in her line of sight had garages.
What got her attention was the expanse of ground, an oddly shaped one protected by curbs and a metal gate. One tall, aged fir tree stood guard over this, and beneath it, a mass of snow and ice, not a snow fort, but an igloo.
She crossed the street, and stumbled into the enclosure. This thing was huge, nearly five feet tall, and in the dim light, she could see its construction: thick blocks of snow and ice, as in the Arctic. Whoever made this, she thought, took their time in doing it.
To her knees, she swept out the entrance, and looked inside. Dark, but inviting; at least inside she would be out of the elements.
The wet froze her fingers and limbs, but she pushed herself inside. So that was true; inside these were much warmer. The Inuit and fellow tribes dressed in loose fitting clothes so as to keep pockets of heat preserved; strange how no one in “civilized” worlds ever learned.
Why she even thought of that now might have seemed weird, but the girl found odd thoughts, things she recalled kept her mind working. In here, away from the opening she curled her frozen body up; she would have to move on as soon as she woke, and hoped no one would see her.
Time, morning, afternoon, night; none of this meant anything anymore. She only knew what day it was by all that was going on in the city; there was no way to register anything else.
She curled up, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep. That was easy, hunger, exhaustion and madness allowed her to remain weak and to collapse into the nightmare of what went on behind her eyes, and deeper within. Yet now she thought: I feel closer, somehow. Whatever has brought me this way, I’m near it. I don’t know what, who or it might be, but I have to find it. I just wish I knew what I was looking for…
The wind slammed against the solid enclosure, and in her dream state, she thought she heard a noise that didn’t sound right, a crushing blow from above. She couldn’t identify it, and sank deeper into sleep.
Chapter 2—One From the Other Side
The black Mercedes SL 500 navigated the side streets of the city, its trip made slower by the traffic and bad weather. Outside, the snow blew in sheets down between the buildings, deflected by the light and the vehicles that for once slowed and paid attention to what went on about it.
A beastly night outside, Robert Hansard thought, as his gloved hands nimbly guided the car. CBS Newsradio 880’s traffic report was dominated by the storm and a major accident. Robert was glad to have taken the long way home. Several vehicles, injuries; a terrible time for a wreck, he thought to himself, but said nothing of it.
Inside, the vehicle was warm, and the talk was of the performance of TheNutcrackerat Lincoln Center. To his right, the woman of Hispanic descent, her long black hair cascaded over the gray Michael Kors coat, which hid the luxurious dress of Claudia’s choosing.
Automatically, Robert checked the rearview mirror, and looked to the passenger in the back seat Claudia was turned and speaking to. The girl, belted in the seat was as decked out as the lady; a wool jacket in black, with a matching, brimless cap, stylishly angled to the side.
The eyes of the girl were wide and brown; same has her mother’s hair, thick with a wave, which rested around the face. She had the trim features of the Hansard men, however; and he saw that in his own lines.
He carefully brushed back the side of his thinning black hair. “It sounds like you enjoyed the performance, Evie,” Robert noted in his voice, which had never completely lost his accent, “I’m glad.”
“Oh, we did, Dad.” Evelyn Hansard smiled that irrepressible one, “I always do; thank you again for bringing us.”
“I always enjoy the event,” Claudia added, “It’s become a family tradition, hasn’t it?”
“That is so.” Robert and Claudia exchanged a smile. They did not mention Evie’s response; her words were correct, but the regular slur of them would have made those unaware stop to question, or ask for the girl to repeat them. They’d long been accustomed to it.
Evie now gazed out the windows. “It’s pretty awful out,” she observed.
The talk now turned to the weather; they’d almost canceled the outing, as the winter storm was expected to bring at least a foot to the metro area, and more in some of the suburbs. But Robert noted that his daughter was not one to let a little bad weather stop her from things. Inwardly, he smiled; the girl was doing damned well. He owed Evie, in his mind, whatever he could, even if she didn’t ask for it.
Traffic thinned out on the narrow streets, past alleys and the few people that still trudged through the snow. There was a good four to six inches out there already, Robert thought, but they were nearly ho