thanks for the review. i appreciate the encouragement.
....ts.
Novel Treatments / Ch. 2 "Throwing Computers"
Chapter 2
ooo THROWING COMPUTERS ooo
The drive to work was always one of the highlights of my day, especially once my license had been reinstated. It was a nice forty-five minute trip that allowed me to sort through important and trivial issues, collectively and respectively. I rounded the last sharp turn between myself and the hotel, and shifted into fourth. It was late October, and the leaves on the trees had done about as much changing as they were going to do. The autumn air was cool enough that I kept the windows up, save for a crack to ash my cigarette.
I arrived at work with a good buzz on. The Dodge had been leaking gas for a few months, but it had never much bothered me. Even so, there was no mistaking the fact that I was usually pretty high at work for the first half-hour or so. It was really quite amazing that I hadn’t blown myself to pieces, considering how much I smoked while driving the potential firecracker.
I stepped out of the toxic deathtrap and onto the pavement. My first task would be to avoid any of my superiors while clocking in, as I was once again late. After that, all I had to do was find Joshua and get busy. I did not succeed in this.
“Just the man I wanted to see.” My boss, Mr. Watson, was a nice enough guy, at least on paper. But I did not cherish the opportunity to chat with him at twenty-minutes past shift-change. “Go ahead and clock-in. Then, meet me in my office.” I could only hope for a quick death.
I inserted my time-card into the slot and punched in my code. [At least the foot up my ass will be on company time.] I stalled as long as I could, reading the customer-comments and event-orders. I even perused the equal-opportunity statement that the hotel, by law, was required to post in a conspicuous location. I wanted to double-check and make sure I hadn’t been discriminated against before walking into Mr. Watson’s office. To my disappointment, I’d been treated quite fairly.
I stopped and talked to one of the girls at the front desk. She, like most of the girls at the front desk, was very cheerful, very attractive, and very blonde. This, most assuredly, was no coincidence. Dave, my friend in the maintenance department, stopped by to change a light bulb. I chatted with him about the falling temperatures. We both concurred that summer was indeed over. I grabbed a radio from the counter and did a position-check with Joshua:
“Banquets to Josh.”
“This is Josh, go ahead.”
“What’s your 20?”
“The North Lawn.”
“I’m walking into the lion’s den. I’ll see you on the other side.”
“What?”
“Yeah, who am I kidding?”
Everyone in the vicinity within earshot of a radio expressed mild amusement. It was a small consolation. I had postponed the inevitable long enough. I headed for Mr. Watson’s office.
“Have a seat.” he began. Mr. Watson’s office was the largest in the hotel. He was good at his job and deserved it, though he rarely could be found in it. He was a hands-on type of manager and could usually be located in the trenches with the rest of us drones. Everyone was fond of him, so long as things were running smoothly, but avoided him like death itself when things went awry. He was, after all, a redhead.
An unfamiliar gentleman stood by the large window to my right, looking out at the state park on which the resort was built, talking on a cell phone. The conversation seemed to concern large amounts of money. The stranger was dressed in an expensive-looking, navy-blue suit and large, green flip-flops. Normally, this would have struck me as funny. But, I was still feeling the effects of my trip to work via the gas-chamber I called a car. So, my immediate reaction was to assume that I was being set-up. [Paranoia—how many great laughs you’ve stolen from us all!] The stranger ended his call, and turned to face me. “Hello. I’m Doug.” He shook my hand.
“Mr. Gordon,” interrupted Mr. Watson, always the fan of formality, “has just purchased the hotel.” Doug gave me a knowing smile. Mr. Watson continued, “And we would like your help in changing its image.”
I had no idea where the conversation was going. I had entered the office in fear, and was now being offered a privileged opportunity to do—something.
“Mike here tells me you went to art school.” Mike Watson’s face recoiled ever so slightly, but I noticed. He hated being referred to as anything other than, “Mr. Watson.” I had always imagined that even his wife respected those boundaries. Even at home. Even in bed. It wasn’t that he was a hard-ass; he was just particular about nomenclature. “We’d like for you to help us spice-up the place a bit.” He winked at Mr. Watson. “We’re gonna give this place a makeover.”
Not knowing how to react to this, I said what anyone who was unintentionally high and just wanted to get the hell out of a situation would say: “Okay.” My plan, however, did not work. The two men spent the next hour or so going over detailed ideas for converting a stuffy, business-oriented place of lodging into a hangout for drunken, Jimmy Buffett fans. I was disgusted. But, I was high.
“Sounds great. I’ll work on some sketches tonight.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and work on them now.” replied Doug. “Head on home, have a couple of beers, and throw some ideas together. We’ll clock you out at, say, 11:30.” I could see Mr. Watson’s head making an attempt at doing a back-flip. “I’d like to get going on this as soon as possible. So it’s finished over the winter months. While business is slow.”
“Even better.” I answered.
ooo
I arrived at home and did as I was told. I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator—Red Stripe, Jamaican for authenticity—and a bottle of rum from the kitchen counter—I always strived to go above and beyond. Being one who would never knowingly possess an album by Jimmy Buffett, however, I had to make do with a Bob Marley CD I‘d found while cleaning the coat-closet one day. [Tropical is tropical,] I reasoned. I cranked the heat up to seventy-eight degrees and put on some shorts and a t-shirt. I took two shots of the rum and a swig of the beer and stared at the blank page of my sketchbook.
[What now?]
I decided to begin with a collage of everything Caribbean through the eyes of a Midwesterner. Images of palm trees, seashells, pelicans, and fishing boats came easily enough. “Gaudy” was my word of inspiration. “Over the top” was my phrase. Before long, I had a handful of ideas for murals that I was sure any sunburned parrot-head would appreciate. Especially a sunburned parrot-head living in Southern Indiana. It was nearly eight o’clock when the doorbell rang.
I opened the door. A man in a brown leather coat and khaki pants with a pen and a notepad was standing on the porch.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Detective Peterson. I’m looking for Mr. Clinton Small. Is he home?” Detective Peterson did not wear an easy-going expression. Unfortunately, I hadn’t seen Clinton in several days—which was not unusual.
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“You don’t believe so?” he repeated.
“No. But I haven’t been downstairs yet.” I’d been fighting the booming band-practice, taking place in the basement, with Rasta-music fairly successfully since I’d been home. I invited the detective into the living room and ran downstairs to see if Clinton might be listening in on the practice session, or if Parrish and Bailey might have any ideas as to why a detective was looking for him in the first place.
“Hey!” I shouted, trying to penetrate the force-field of music surrounding my roommates. Parrish smiled at me and nodded his head, but continued pounding and crashing his drums. Bailey couldn’t even muster an acknowledgement, as he was turning some dials and flipping some switches and making, to my ear’s opinion, absolutely no difference whatsoever. The other two band-members just stared vacantly in my general direction. If they were ever going to decide on a decent band name, it would have to come from Parrish or Bailey—the other two were barely capable of tying their shoes. I proceeded down the wooden flight of stairs to the light-switch where I got their attention by temporarily blinding us all.
“Hey,” I began again, “there’s a detective upstairs looking for Clinton.” Looks of confusion darted back and forth between everyone, like they were watching an invisible tennis match.
Finally, in unison, they responded, “A detective?”
“Yeah. Where’s Clinton?” I asked. The tennis match resumed.
“I haven’t seen him in at least three or four days.” stated Parrish.
“There’s a detective upstairs right now?” questioned Bailey.
“Yes.”
“Now?” piped in Eddie, the indifferent bass-player.
“Yes. Now.”
“What’s he doing here?” asked the bassist, in a blasé manner that annoyed me a little.
“He’s listening to “I Shot the Sheriff,” dickhead.”
ooo
“So no one has seen Mr. Small for nearly a week?” We each stared at Detective Peterson with varying degrees of inebriation. It was the truth, but we could tell that he wasn’t buying it.
Finally, Parrish asked, “What is this all about, anyway?”
Ignoring the question, the detective pressed on. “Mr. Bailey?”
“Yes.” Bailey responded mawkishly.
“You are still employed at Mr. D’s Gas N’ Go, right up the block, correct?”
“Yes.” Bailey took a nervous drag from his cigarette.
“Mr. Small was also employed at Mr. D’s, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was.”
“But he quit, just a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah. He got a new job.” Bailey paused. “I can’t remember where.”
“Did he ever visit you while you were at work?” asked the detective, taking notes.
“Yeah, he stopped by all the time.”
“Any visits this week?”
“He stopped by a few days ago. That was the last time I saw him, actually.”
“And what did you talk about?” he asked, not unkindly.
“Not much, really. He bought a pack of cigarettes. He was with a friend.”
“Cigarettes.” He jotted it down. “Anything else?”
“No.”
“Did you know his friend?”
“I’d seen him before. But I didn’t really know him.”
“What was his name?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“One last question, Mr. Bailey: Did Mr. Small ever get behind the register that day?”
“No. He bought a pack of cigarettes and then walked outside with me to empty the trash.”
“He and his friend?”
Bailey thought a moment. “No. His friend stayed inside.”
“Okay. Well…”
“Am I in some sort of trouble?” asked Bailey, feverishly.
“No, Mr. Bailey. But it appears that your roommate, Clinton, may very well be. And a lot of it.“ We all waited for him to elaborate. He lingered a moment, as if to draw out the tension, before continuing. “Ten-thousand dollars in money orders were printed up and taken from Mr. D’s last Tuesday evening. None were larger than five-hundred dollars, so they could be cashed, one at a time, at different banks without immediately putting up any red flags. None were cashed by Clinton Small. However, according to the tellers we talked to, the checks were presented for payment by two men in their mid-twenties, one matching your roommate’s description.”
None of us quite knew how to respond to the detective’s allegations. Most of us reached for a cigarette, but none of us could tear our gaze away from the stare of Detective Peterson. So, there was a lot of fruitless patting about the shirt- and pant-pockets while we stared blankly ahead.
“I’ll leave you gentlemen my card. You can reach me anytime, preferably before nine, should you be contacted by Mr. Small or remember anything that could be of use.” Parrish accepted the card, and handed it immediately to Bailey as if the card was carrying the Ebola virus. “By the way, you guys sounded really good. What’s the name of your band?”
Parrish and Bailey glanced at each other, then back at the detective.
“Oh, it changes everyday.” replied Bailey.
“’It Changes Everyday.’ That’s a great fucking name!” Detective Peterson put away his notepad and pen. “You boys have a good evening.”
We sat side-by-side on the rust-colored couch for a while in complete stillness. Bailey’s silence seemed to speak the loudest, as he was undeniably much closer to our missing roommate than Parrish, and infinitely so compared with me. The other two band members, apparently sensing the deflated mood of our household, decided to leave.
“Call me later.” said Eddie to no one in particular, saluting us with two fingers. We watched the two exit through the backdoor, and then faced one another.
“Want to go through his room?” suggested Parrish.
“Yes.” replied Bailey. I followed them upstairs.
The door to Clinton’s room would barely open wide enough to squeeze through. Luckily, we each were fairly malnourished individuals, capable of passing through small cracks like George Bush, Jr. in a general election. Clothes were piled high in all four corners of the room. Large boxes filled his closet, stacked three- and four-high. Behind the door, nearly pinning it shut, were trash bags filled with shoes, books, and empty cough-syrup bottles. On the window sills were rows of empty cough-syrup bottles. And, in the trash can, another mound of empty cough-syrup bottles.
On his bed, amongst various other items of curious purpose, was a sheet of paper with barely legible writing on it. Words like, “gas,“ and, “hotel,“ could be identified if carefully examined. Mostly, however, the page consisted of numbers and figures and calculations. And at the bottom of the page, circled several times and underlined several more, preceded by an “S” with a vertical line through its center, was one particular number of significance: 10,000.
Still in relative shock, we began going through our missing roommate’s boxes. The first few boxes contained arbitrary, electronic equipment—-telephones, a digital alarm, small speakers, wires, and chords—-all old and mistreated junk. Beneath those boxes, though, we discovered a more interesting cache of goodies. We found Clinton’s porn stash. It wasn’t the fact that he possessed pornography which amazed us, it was the amount of pornography! Hundreds of videos and magazines, all in alphabetical order, and all of disgustingly poor quality. [If you’re that into pornography,] I thought, [at least go for the good stuff.] We waded through the ocean of titles with absolute shock and repulsion—-each title an innuendo somehow worse than the last—-wanting, but unable, to turn away. No one spoke, until Bailey, at last, offered a summation thusly:
“Who the hell is this guy?” referring, of course, to Clinton and not to the uniquely-proportioned fellow on the cover of, “Mr. Bo Dangles.” Bailey was markedly more upset than Parrish and I, and rightly so. He had developed a tight friendship with Clinton, reaching out to the often-awkward newcomer with the guidance of an old-hand. “And where did he get all of these computers?”
I had not even noticed. There, in the back of the closet, behind the stacks of boxes, were six, slightly-used, computer monitors and their accompanying hard-drives. Out of heightened frustration, Bailey threw his Zippo lighter at one of the computer screens. It cracked the glass surface about two inches in the upper-right corner. Then, after a brief pause and an angry grunt, Bailey stood and seized the monitor, raising it to eye-level, and chucked the thing at Clinton’s bedpost. It crashed to the floor violently. Taking Bailey’s cue, Parrish lifted one of the bedroom’s second-story windows, grabbed the now defunct monitor, and tossed it with all his strength straight out into the darkness, sending several empty cough-syrup bottles tumbling with it into the night. A small explosion echoed off the neighboring homes and apartment buildings. In a gesture of brotherly support, I, too, grabbed a monitor and hurled it through the open window. Another loud crash rang out as it hit the cement walkway. We three, typically reserved, young men looked at one another and smiled. We laughed and pointed at ourselves and at the open window. Then, Bailey grabbed a baseball bat from one of the several heaps of clutter on the floor. He smiled again and headed downstairs, towards the backdoor.
If nothing else, we had at least restored a spirit of unity to our home. Feeling a bit celebratory, I decided afterwards to pay Lilly a visit. My mood was elevated and the wounds on my back barely hurt at all.
ooo
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NancyAllen reviewed Version 3 -
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I read this before and found it interesting. I don’t know why it came up in my window again. I don’t know how I rated it last time. But, I remember it being good.
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catherinespark reviewed Version 3 -
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Personally I really like the title “Throwing Computers” as something about that pairing of words really appealed to me as a story to read at random of the carousel.
Well… it is a deftly written story. You handle the necessary moments of pathos will considerable skill and given your synopsis I was utterly intrigued to find out how the entire circumstances came across that made her end up in the situation she was in.
The dialogue crackles and the storytelling I found confident. You practice economy in your writing that makes it appeal to a broader audience and I am confident you will find a market for this piece. The great thing about this style is its brevity and wit. I esp. enjoyed Eddie, “the indifferent bass player!”
Brien_James_Dawson reviewed Version 3 -
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This is pretty enjoyable. Normally I have to force myself to read shit on Urbis, but yours moved along quickly…even though I hadn’t read the first chapter, which to me show the story and your voice has it’s own legs. I don’t really have much “critique” being this is just a taste of the story, but I’d not only keep reading, but if I opened this in a bookstore, and read just this section, I’d buy it. You have a very nice style, it’s easy, like you’re not trying and yet humorous and clever.
as to the title, I like it, maybe add something on or after…I think it actually work and would make for awesome cover design.
DCAllen reviewed Version 3 -
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To answer you question: Yes, it keeps my attention.
The relatively good things:
He was after all a redhead. (nice)
[Tropical is tropical,] I reasoned. (I like this line but wonder why the brackets are here.)
The section in which the detective shows up is the fastest and most enjoyable part of the read. “That’s a great fucking name!” (Would the detective really speak this way?) Why wouldn’t the detective want to see Clinton’s room? It seems only natural that he would have a search warrant if Clinton were a suspect in a crime.
Proofreading notes:
cherish the opportunity = relish the opportunity?
twenty-minutes past (no hyphen)
spice-up the place = spice up
Ten-thousand dollars in money orders were printed up (was printed up. An amount of money is the subject of this sentence.)
defunct means Having ceased to exist or live. Is this what you mean?
gkm32 reviewed Version 3 -
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I liked the humor and when I got to the end I definitely wanted to know what would happen next.
A small correction: you used the phrase “hard drive” to describe what are almost certainly PC cases. Those are two very different things.
From what I understand, you get italics in Urbis by underlining words.
BSRiter reviewed Version 2 -
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I thought this was fairly entertaining and laced with odd bits of humor. I like the interaction between the detective and the housemates. It changes everyday is a pretty fucking good title for a band. The beginning was a little mediocre. The protag’s quick promotion to artistic designer for the hotel just seems to happen a little too quickly to seem believable. And why the hell would someone want to have a Jimmy Buffet themed hotel in southern Indiana? Also, after reading your summary of chapter One, I was kind of hoping for more sex to be happening. Overall a decent read with enough humor to keep me interested.
camawin reviewed Version 2 -
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i liked this quite a bit, i hadn’t read the previous chapter or prologue but i want to now. your character is flawed and believable and there are some very funny parts as well. the i shot the sheriff thing was hilarious. since this is a small portion of what will most likely be a much longer work i can’t say much about overall plot but just from this section i would definetly say you have an engaging premise with interesting characters. good work
NancyAllen reviewed Version 2 -
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You have some good leadins for a book. The license was reinstated. That tells me something about the character. Also, the art and music personalities gives more clues to character. The set up for drama is good and I wonder where their room mate has gone and just what kind of trouble he has gotten himself into.
adamsk13 reviewed Version 2 -
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I really enjoyed this piece. you have very strong character development and good dialog that makes the story seem very “real?”...”raw?”..im not sure, really, but good, and very believable. i really do find myself empatizing with the characters already.
very well done and i look forward to reading more. best of luck and keep writing!
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