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Resolution Revisited

list of resolutions on blackboard with three blank, numbered sticky notes

Resolution Revisited

I’ve been going through old posts and found this one from 2008. I never think I accomplish my goals. But, by God, here’s one I did:

I am going to write a book. There, I’ve said it, right out loud so now it is real. This involves the shifting of my tectonic plates:

• First, I need to think of something to write about.

• Then, I have to cut billable hours. I like what I do and am jealous when my clients seem happy with anyone else, so this isn’t easy – think in terms of an old thoroughbred watching the kids thunder out of the gate.

• Cutting back on work hours is a delicate balancing act. I need to make enough to sustain those goodies I simply can’t live without: an occasional pork chop special at the Corner House, reflexology, getting my hair dyed by someone else, four-adjective coffee.

• I am creating maybe 15 hours a week that I can designate to writing a book. I need chunks of time; I am not one of those writers who can produce in short bursts between the flotsam and jetsam of the day.

That’s the plan. But, honestly, I am terrified by it. I have made my living by writing ads, so I already know a lot about writing fiction. But long format stuff? Jeez. Wish me luck.

Today, I have just completed my fifth novel (let the edit begin). Other writers are beginning to ask my advice. I have been invited to speak to groups. It’s not all rosy, of course. Money will always be hard to come by. I go through big fat depressions. I feel like a rescue animal when anyone reaches out in kindness. But, boy oh boy, what a treat to fulfill a resolution every now and then.

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/resolution-revisited/

Cruise News

If a cruise is working as it should, around about Day Five your brain has made so few decisions that it ceases to function altogether. This leads to conversations such as this overheard early one morning on the Lido Deck

Cruise News

She: Look. It’s getting light out.
He: Let’s go see if it’s getting light on the other side of the ship, too.

***

clean room suites operating room
Unfortunately, the cruise industry is now beleaguered with illness aboard. By the end of each day, you feel soggy from all the chemical sanitizer they spray around trying to deflect the Noro virus. It won’t be long before cruise wear will be clean suits in Day Glo colors for daytime apparel and ruffled black for formalwear.

***

towel formed into ersatz lobster
Since your cabin steward is now sanitizing THIRTY CABINS each day, he has little time for niceties. So those cute little towel animals you used to get … the elephants and puppies and monkeys? Get over it. They now look like amorphous sea life thrown together on the run. Here’s the evidence:

 

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/cruise-news/

Navel Lint

AARP logo

AARP online featured this article: Understand the Early Signs of Dementia: Take the Memory Quiz. Hot damn, doesn’t that sound like fun? Frankly, I take a memory quiz every morning when I try to find my car keys.

Do you shop on line? You know that place that allows you to choose the order in which you want to see items? Who the hell ever chooses PRICE: HIGHEST TO LOWEST?

The local investigative reporters have discovered the reason we greedy town folk are using more water than last year is that we’re watering our lawns. Hell, you just have to drive around town to see we’re not doing a whole lot of that. What those reporters totally missed is that our little dog Caesar has been syphoning water out of the end of the garden hose so he can pee on every bush.

August 10 is National S’More Day. To celebrate, there will be no calories in chocolate, graham crackers and marshmallows. Go hog wild. And while you’re at it, purchase s’more calorie-free Linda B Myers books on Amazon. Okay, I know I should be ashamed. Sometimes marketing is a real bitch. Sometimes I am, too.

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/navel-lint/

Bear Claus & Weed

Linda B Myers Bear Claus book coverI am the world’s worst crafter. Don’t know a crochet hook from a knitting needle. But! Here on the back nine, I’ve found a home craft I can do. I’m working on it now.

That book cover to the left should be a hint. Yes! It’s a holiday novella starring Bear and his geriatric gang. Beth from my critique group calls it a Bear Lite story. Sis calls it a cozier cozy than that dark stuff I usually produce. You know, the stuff I like to call cozies with bite.

Look for Bear Claus sometime in the fall. Between now and then, I think I’ll get back to posts about Dog Patch, navel lint, and the local headlines. Important stuff like that. Such as letting you know that, now that MJ is a legal purchase in WA, I may be taking a magic bus from Mr. Buds marijuana shop to the Purple Haze farm during the Sequim Lavender festival this weekend.

Mr. Buds. Purple Haze. God only knows where the tour would go after that!

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/bear-claus-weed/

Learning to Nap

When I retired I did not know how to nap. You probably won’t either. As a child, the very idea filled you with horror, maybe because it was also referred to as being ‘put down.’ Of course that made you cry. The result is that you recoiled from it all your working life. It seemed somehow weak to even admit to the concept of sleeping at night much less in the afternoon.

generic nap slumber photoBut in your sixties? A nap begins to sound like a slice of heaven, just free for the asking. Of course, I soon realized some remedial work would be needed. The nap concept didn’t just come back naturally. I had to coax it along.

Here are some of the things I have found essential to becoming an expert napper:

1. Nap in your own bed. A nap in anyone else’s is NOT a nap. For a successful nap, you really can’t give a shit how you look. Slobber trails, fat rolls, nose noise be damned.

2. Remove your clothes. It doesn’t matter what you put on but take off whatever you are wearing. Don’t let your body think it is just down for a moment. If you do, it will keep one metaphorical eye open, staying as ready to go as a chambered round. Your body must believe it’s in storage for a long haul.

3. Move your electronic beep, burble, belch or other ringtone as far away from you as you can. Somewhere you can’t hear it at all. Death Valley comes to mind. Do not let the curiosity factor keep you awake. I guarantee you have not won a million bucks.

4. Drink a large glass of water immediately before lying down. This will guarantee that your nap will not stretch until night time. If it does, it is not a nap.

5. Dim the lights but don’t go for total darkness. It’s too hard to achieve at this time of year anyway. Besides, you’ll just worry about what non-nocturnal sort of thing might be crawling on you.

6. Give Fluffy a new chew toy to keep him quiet. Better yet, duct tape him to a table leg far away from your bedroom.

7. Don’t think you’ll just drop off to dreamland effortlessly. Do something that will focus your wandering mind. Read a totally unstimulating book. Play Freecell. Whatever makes you want to shut your eyes to avoid any more of it (warning: do not drop your iPad or Kindle on your nose … this is counterproductive to napping).

If you practice any of the above tips, you will become a better napper. Practice them all, and you will become an expert ready to collapse anytime anywhere. This is a handy feat. It might be the only thing that will get you through a theatre showing of something like Mad Max: Fury Road.

 

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/learning-to-nap/

Bear In Mind – It’s Alive!

Hard to Bear - by Linda B MyersHard to Bear is now online (I like to think some of the weekend fireworks were about that). This is the second in the Bear Jacobs series of mysteries. I thought you might enjoy the first few pages, so here they are. Let me know what you think.

BTW, if you’d like to help keep Dottie supplied with kibble, you might buy the ebook here. If you would like to review it on Amazon, I won’t stand in your way. But I might come by your house with pom-poms and cheer.

BEAR IN MIND

PROLOGUE

Pain.
As Solana Capella came to, she groaned, her head pounding like a jackhammer.
What happened to my head? Ouch, my arm. Where …?
Her eyes fluttered open and slowly focused on the feral eyes of a swamp monster staring back. Pain was joined by its old friend, fear.
But wait. Not a swamp thing.
The hollow-cheeked face wasn’t really green. It was smeared with camouflage muck. The stranger was pushed up against her and seemed to be spreading the same green and brown ooze on her face.
Panic.
She yelped and began biting and scratching at Camo Man’s hands. She inhaled the breath she needed for a championship scream, but his enormous hand clamped down over her mouth and pinched her nose, shutting down the air passages. She fought, but he tightened the grip. “Shhh,” he hissed low as a whisper. “They’re coming. You must be very still. Do you understand?”
They’re coming? Oh, God.
Now she remembered. She tried to control her fear of this new captor. She did her best to nod and, failing at that, blinked her eyes rapidly. Maybe he’d take that as, “Yes, I understand.” He may hurt her, but at least he wasn’t one of them.
Any old port in the storm, right?
She felt a hysterical bubble of laughter behind the hand over her mouth as it eased up, letting air rush into her lungs. He glowered a warning at her, then slithered down prone, pressing hard against her. That shoved her backside up to a damp cold wall of earth. The kind with spiders and centipedes and worms. She shivered, pressing back against him in hopes of moving her ass off the wall.
Solana was afraid she would suffocate as her face squashed into his slender chest. But some deep instinct of a small cornered animal told her to be ever so quiet, to freeze in place. Playing dead, she took inventory. From the little she could see pressed against him, it appeared they were in a shallow, low cave. Roots from a million plants laced through the dirt and clay, holding its walls in place. It smelled of mold and rotten vegetation, overcoming even the fetid odor of filthy clothes and man sweat crushed against her nose. She could hear the sound of rushing water, and through the mouth of the cave, she was aware of only deep grey light. It must be nearly dark.
The pain reasserted itself. They had not marked her body. The scrapes, bruises and sprained wrist were from her wild flight. The real ache was buried deep within, raw and torn, from the rape. She shuddered against this stranger who now held her fate in his control.
Fear had been her companion since she’d been taken. It rose and fell like swells on the ocean. Now it was ebbing, as she accepted that Camo Man was helping her hide from them. When she felt his muscles tense, hers followed in lock step. Then she heard the sounds he was hearing.
Movement in the underbrush above. More than one hunter. Footsteps overhead, coming to a halt. Shuffling feet. Men swearing.
Flashlight beams crisscrossed the grayness in front of the cavern’s opening. Then she heard in a voice she knew, “It’s too dark. We’ll miss her again. She’ll be easier to track in the morning. Killing this bitch will be more fun than most.”
They left. It was still. A minute, five, maybe a year. Then the man next to her moved back just enough for her to see his face. “They call me Ghost,” he said. “You knocked yourself out trying to run under a tree limb. I brought you here. But we have to move on.”
She considered his ragged military jacket as well as the face paint. “Are you a soldier?” she whispered.
“Was. Can you walk?”
She nodded, although she was unsure how far she could go. Her stolen sandals were no more than shreds now, one sole flapping loose against the bottom of her foot. She’d run so far, so fast that vine maple whips and blackberry thorns had cut her feet and her legs. The cowboy shirt she’d taken was so big it had caught on snags, and now shreds flapped like home made fringe. Same with the basketball shorts. But she was a fighter, and she would not give up. Her sister’s life depended on it.
Ghost turned and slid on his butt out of the cave. “Follow,” he said and she did, mimicking his action. As she slid out and down, he caught her just as her feet entered the freezing water of a fast moving creek. She gasped.
“We’ll walk in the creek for a while. No tracks to follow. No detectable odors unless they bring dogs tomorrow.” Ghost headed upstream.
Solana looked back at the cave but could not see the mouth. It was hidden in the dusk behind the grasses on the bank. Her instinct was to go back there and hide forever. But she told herself it would not be so hard to see in the daylight. She had to swallow her exhaustion and fear.
Her baggy shorts rode so low on her hips that they dragged in the water. Holding them up with one hand, she followed Ghost. He seemed to sense where he was as the darkness became absolute, the journey only lit in patches where pale blue moonlight soaked through the forest canopy. He grabbed her uninjured wrist to lead her, and in time the freezing water dulled the pain in her feet. It seemed like a thousand miles until he stopped and pointed up the bank.
“There,” he said. The massive root system of an ancient Sitka spruce looked like clutching fingers in the moonlight. The tree must have crashed to earth many decades before. Now other trees were growing from the nurse log which was at least twelve feet across near the base. The massive old roots swept out into an impenetrable arch of tendrils that intertwined with boulders rising above the muddy bank.
Ghost left the creek and pulled her up the bank to the far side of the roots where they jammed against a casket-sized chunk of volcanic rock. “Kneel here and crawl forward.”
She did as she was told. On her knees she could see that there was room for her to shimmy between two tangled roots. She crawled through and found herself in a hollowed out cavern inside the fallen tree.
Ghost followed her in. He reached for a flashlight tucked inside the entrance and turned it on. “This is one of my hidey holes,” he said to her. “Nobody knows it. We’re safe. For now.”
Solana watched him open the padlock of a battered foot locker with a key that hung on the chain with his dog tags. He lifted the lid of the locker and handed the flashlight to her. “You can leave it on for a little bit.”
While he removed fur pelts from the locker and spread them over the bottom of the cavern, Solana flashed the light around her. She could see the space was a circle with maybe an eight foot diameter. “How did you do this?” She asked. “It’s awesome.”
“Burned it. Like some tribes hollowed out trees to make canoes.” Next he rummaged out several strips of jerky. “Venison,” he said, handing some of the dark, smoky slices to her. “Eat then sleep. We’ll leave at daylight.”
Solana took two of the pelts and crawled under them. If he meant her any harm, there was little she could do about it. She tried to chew the tough meat, but she was so tired. Too tired. The last thing she remembered was Ghost pulling out a satellite phone and calling somebody named Vinny. They made plans to meet. Solana was asleep before she heard where or when.
CHAPTER ONE

Case Notes
September 16, 2 p.m.
Society places certain expectations on Italians like Frankie Sapienza. Maybe his family puts horse heads in each others’ beds. Maybe they use car trunks as portable caskets. A person can be forgiven for thoughts like these if you’ve seen enough movies.
The rest of us residents at Latin’s Ranch Adult Family Home are fascinated with the Sicilian octogenarian. After all, gossip is our numero uno group activity. We like to speculate that he’s a don of the highest order. But, alas, Frankie pretty much keeps his trap shut no matter how much the rest of us bump our gums. Oh, he’s a smoothy all right, with a fine line of patter when it serves his purpose. But about his past he reveals zip, zilch, nada. And we don’t push it, not as long as Frankie’s goomba Vinny Tononi hangs around looking threatening as a hawk in a henhouse.
Maybe my roommate Eunice Taylor could make some inroads now that she’s what Frankie calls his little dove, which is apparently somewhere between first date and betrothed. But she doesn’t ask him awkward questions. She likes him and the gifts he bestows, but she isn’t actually interested in sleeping with any fishes. Eunice is smart that way.
Anyhoo, imagine my surprise when Frankie up and asked Bear Jacobs to handle a private investigation. That’s right. The could-be capo, who should have a lot of young hot shots on his payroll, chose a cane wielding, overweight, grouch of a has-been shamus to trust. I take it as a show of respect for Bear’s brain. Bear takes it as nothing less than his due.
Of course, when he elicited Bear’s help, the secretive Sicilian didn’t mention that the rest of us would soon be hiding a terrified young woman. Or that murderers might climb right over us to get to her.
– Lily Gilbert, Curious Assistant to PI Bear Jacobs

Lily Gilbert shut down her laptop, sat up and swung her leg over the side of the bed. Ever since she had become the eWatson to retired private investigator Bear Jacobs she’d kept her version of case notes. They weren’t official files, of course, in the sense of admissible court documents. There were no “pursuant tos” or “time of the incidents.” But they were the kind of notes that appealed to Lily, and if Bear needed something else, he could go find another assistant who worked for goose eggs. He could do that right after he pounded sand.
She fluffed up her cloud of light gray hair, pinched a little more pink into her cheeks, and hopped down from the bed on her one remaining foot. With the help of her walker she traveled out to the Latin’s Ranch kitchen in search of a cup of tea. Lily actually knew that Bear was grateful for her case notes and even more so for her help. But everyone had been a little edgy since Frankie had consulted with Bear. What the hell was up?
Bear Jacobs, Lily Gilbert, Eunice Taylor and Charlie Barker had all come to the adult family home together, after departing a nursing home. Frankie Sapienza was the only resident who had arrived from points unknown. Latin’s Ranch was a lot smaller, friendlier, and homier than a nursing home. And usually safer, too, from things like communicable illness.
But safer from gangland warfare? Well, that wasn’t the kind of thing most care facilities worried about. It hadn’t been an issue at Latin’s Ranch either until Bear gathered the rest of the residents together to tell them what Frankie wanted him to do.
“He’s honorable by crook standards,” Bear had begun. “His family made their living in the traditional rackets of gambling, protection and prostitution.”
Eunice’s feathers ruffled. “A friendly card game or two, maybe helping a few storekeepers out with security, but prostitutes? Not my Frankie.” Her lips compressed into a tight little pout as she crossed her arms over her kaftan-covered chest. With that orange spiky hair she looked like an irritated pin cushion.
Bear rolled his beady black eyes. “Right. Not that. What was I thinking?” He crossed his own arms over a chest covered in an ancient flannel shirt that must have been an XXL.
Lily the Peacemaker quickly intervened. “Keep going, Bear. I’m sure there’s more you want to tell us.”
“Okay, but only if you’re interested,” Bear grumped.
Lily knew the big man could pout every bit as well as Eunice. Based on his mass, Alvin Jacobs might have been a retired lumberjack instead of a sleuth. He was in his seventies with silvertip hair and beard surrounding his massive head. Size and hair together provided his nickname. But Lily knew that Bear described his personality, too. He could fool you into thinking he was a big ambling dope, slow and easy to underestimate. You’d be wrong. Bear was steely sharp. It was never wise to underestimate him.
“We’re all interested, Bear,” Charlie said, glancing up from the hand of solitaire spread on the living room game table. He was tall enough that his voice should be in the basso profundo range, but instead, it was sort of a squeak. “Really. Tell us.”
“Okay. As I was saying, the Sapienza family made its nut in traditional cri- , um, pursuits. Frankie has his standards.” He tipped a metaphorical hat to Eunice.
She brightened and returned the nod vigorously, moussed spikes bobbing with her. “Thank you, Bear. Of course he does.”
“He says he never condoned things like street drugs or kiddie porn or the slave trade. All the seamy shit that newer gangs are into. To an old Italian like Frankie, newer gangs mean Latin or Asian or Russian.” Bear paused, momentarily pushing out his lower lip before saying, “And, to be honest, I’ve never heard about anything like that in Frankie’s past.”
Bear should know, Lily thought. He’d had a long career as a private investigator before bad health ended it. If the cops had dirt on Frankie Sapienza, he’d have heard about it. As far as she could tell, Bear’s noggin was a bulging filing cabinet of all his past adventures.
“He’s heard rumors of a business one of those gangs has started. Innocent people dying in a bizarre way. In Frankie’s system of ethics, it’s bound to bring the wrong kind of attention to mob activity, and that’s bad. He wants it stopped. He doesn’t want organized crime under a spotlight. I imagine none of the families really want one going rogue.”
“Why did Frankie come to you with this, Bear?” Lily asked.
“You think I’m not capable?”
“Oh, quit it.” Lily took just so much guff from her old friend. “You know I mean instead of going to one of his own people.”
“He wants to know exactly what’s happening, and which gang is behind it. He can hardly go to the cops. And someone in his own family would be recognized by the others.” Bear leaned forward in his easy chair and looked from one to the next. “I’m telling you about it because you all have a decision to make.”
Our ears cocked like bird dogs sighting quail.
“A frightened girl was found out in the woods by one of Vinny’s pals. She’s involved in this somehow. Thugs were chasing her and are still trying to hunt her down. She needs a place to hide until I can hear her story and work this all out. A place nobody would guess.”
“A place like Latin’s Ranch?” Charlie piped up.
Bear nodded. “You guys willing to hide her here? Could be dangerous.”
Invite murderers into our little safety zone just to help a girl we don’t know?
Even as she thought it, Lily said, “Of course.”
“Of course,” said Charlie still slapping red cards on black.
“Of course,” said Eunice, giving Bear a why-would-you-even-ask shrug.
Bear nodded at his little band of operatives. “Good thing we all see eye to eye. Because she’ll be here tomorrow.”
“But Bear, you need to ask Jessica about this first,” Lily cautioned. Jessica Winslow was the owner and caretaker of Latin’s Ranch as well as Lily’s closest friend. Jessica believed the seniors in her care needed a certain amount of freedom and control over their own lives, that being old didn’t make them a bunch of big babies. But would she allow them to put each other in danger?
Fat chance.
“No, Lily,” Bear said. “We’ll get the girl here first, then you’ll tell Jessica.”
“Me?”
“Sure. That’s what BFFs are for.”
END OF EXCERPT

 

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/bear-in-mind-its-alive/

This Morning I Woke Up As Andy Rooney!

This Morning I Woke Up As Andy Rooney! Damn It All

Andy RooneyThis morning when I woke up, I was Andy Rooney. I have spent the day shooting messengers. Here are five of my current irritants:

1. I am sick and tired of sexual orientation being the first thing I know about a person. “Hi. I’m Bobbi Jo and I am a two-spirit person but not transsexual although a bit of crossdressing is a real turn on.” Honest to God, I don’t care.

2. I don’t care about the size of a Kardashian’s butt, either.

3. I hate opening the patio door and bellowing HERE LIZZY when that dog has been dead for more than a decade. More and more I rummage around in this grab bag of a brain and come up with the wrong word altogether. Not to mention how it confuses Dotty.

4. It is stupid to put my dinner napkin on my lap where no part of my dinner ever lands. Much like the trajectory of the Kennedy magic bullet, a spill would have to head outward before curving down around my chest, then veer inward to wedge itself between the table top and the muffin top before free falling to the thighs. I will keep the napkin on the table, where it is speedier to reach, and fuck you very much, Miss Manners.

5. No matter how much I spend on serum, gel, cream, and lotion in order to restore, smooth, brighten, firm, tone and lift all the lines, circles, puffiness, and wrinkles away, I still look older than I used to.

I suggest you all cut a wide path around me today. The irritant list can only grow. In fact, add a few of your own if you care to.

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/this-morning-i-woke-up-as-andy-rooney/

Hard to Bear is Nearly Ready

At last! The second in my PI Bear Jacobs series is nearly ready to introduce through Amazon. The final edit is underway; the book should be available within the next thirty days.

Hard to Bear - by Linda B MyersTo the left is the cover (duh). And here is the ‘sell copy’ for Amazon:

Life at Latin’s Ranch adult care home is anything but restful for retired PI Bear Jacobs, his eWatson Lily Gilbert and the rest of the residents who have dedicated themselves to righting very serious wrongs. In Hard to Bear, a vicious upstart gang is producing old-fashioned snuff films with a horrific new twist: custom-order murder for sale. Have people become so enraged by surrounding events that they seek such evil to feed their own fury?

While Bear, a cane wielding, overweight grouch, investigates and Lily keeps case notes as she sees fit (“… if Bear doesn’t like it, he can pound sand …”), life goes on at Latin’s Ranch. Lily’s daughter Sylvia draws a bead on a hot new lover, Jessica and Ben make plans regarding his grandbaby’s future, Eunice takes up a new craft to everyone’s dismay. Unbeknownst to them all, they come under danger themselves as Bear joins forces with an avenging mobster famiglia, a special forces soldier tormented by PTSD, and a pack of mad dogs to remove the evil that has taken root in the Pacific Northwest woods. Hard to Bear is a cozy with bite.

The introductory price will be $2.99. What do you think … do the cover and copy peak your interest? Opinions, please!

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/hard-to-bear-is-nearly-ready/

The Evil Potato

potatoes I would be half the woman I am today without potatoes. In addition to giving one a profile any Sumo would envy, potatoes spike blood sugar, raise bad triglycerides, lower good cholesterol, boost risk of heart attack, promote binge eating.

Nonetheless, a world without potatoes is unthinkable. The Irish wouldn’t have done all that whining about a famine. Idaho would be even more useless than it is now. The game would be Mr. Cabbage Head. You’d be a Couch Rutabaga. “You Say Potato” would never have been written. Van Gogh would have painted The Radish Eaters. The English would have nothing to serve with fish. The potato bug would die out.

It’s true that I would weigh less without potatoes on my plate, but I’m happier this way. It’s impossible to face life without them. So please pass the butter, sour cream, salt, cheese and bacon bits. We’re having spuds tonight!

Permanent link to this article: https://lindabmyers.com/the-evil-potato/

LESSONS OF EVIL (excerpt)

 LESSONS OF EVIL

 

PROLOGUE

 

The Oregon Desert, 1989

 

Shrinks think they know everything, but they’re as clueless as everyone else. Abishua had learned that from the psychobabble they’d forced on him in the early eighties at Oregon State Penitentiary. He’d been paroled early because of all the ‘progress’ he had made. They had no one but themselves to blame for the bloody mess he’d made of a girl that night in celebration of his freedom.

At the moment he was clipping his fingernails over the office waste can, thinking about the newest mindfucker. She’d fail, just like her predecessor, never having hard proof of a damn thing. Not when a spy reported back to him from deep inside each of his creations. Not when his followers kept watch.

Abishua looked at his fingertips, now satisfied with his handiwork. “Cadman,” he snapped at his oldest son who was, as always, nearby. “Be very sure Laura Covington doesn’t push too far.”

He turned his attention to the child sitting motionless at his feet. “It’s time,” he said. “Tick, tick, tick.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Laura Covington sat in her hellhole of an office, her tiny desk jammed up against the wall. She wished she could open a window except, of course, she didn’t have one.

That’s what I get for climbing down the corporate ladder.

After years as a corporate psychologist at a large company in Portland, Oregon, she had kissed her slick environs and high paying job good-bye. She’d entered the far grittier world of Community Mental Health in Rapid River, a small eastern Oregon town. This was where she’d find the people most in need of her counseling skills. 1989 was her year to reach out to those troubled souls clinging to society’s lowest rungs.

She’d craved the mental challenge, and boy oh boy, did she ever get it. Almost nobody was as challenging as Woodrow in his aluminum cone hat warding off the aliens. Or Vlad who’d bite himself if he couldn’t corner some little creature to feast on. Clinical vampirism just wasn’t one of the disorders she’d encountered in the corporate sector.

She sat back in her rickety desk chair and let her thoughts wander to her predecessor here, a woman named Sarah Fletcher. When she’d gone through Sarah’s files in her first weeks on the job, Laura had been impressed with the senior counselor. And nosey about her, too.

“Where did she go?” Laura had asked her boss Tom McClaren.

“Somewhere in Seattle,” he’d answered. “I’m not exactly sure where. Private practice, I think.”

“She kept great notes. Left me a lot to go on.”

“Maybe, but don’t believe just everything you read.”

“What do you mean?” Laura thought it a curious thing to say.

“Oh nothing. Except Sarah sometimes got a little too … imaginative. We want your take on things. You have better credentials, and that’s what we’re paying for.”

Laura wondered if Tom was referring to Sarah’s work with Multiple Personality Disorder. Not all counselors believed it existed. Herself included. But maybe that was because they’d never worked with such a dysfunctional population as that at Community Mental Health.  With what she was encountering here, Laura was now open to all sorts of trauma-based syndromes.

Just because you haven’t seen it, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

***

 

“Who are you?” asked the wide-eyed young man hovering at Laura’s office door. He looked ready to take flight, like a pheasant flushed from a hedgerow.

Laura stood and moved toward him, then stopped when he started to step back. “I’m Dr. Laura Covington,” she said. “I’m your new psychologist. Please come in.”

“Where’s Sarah?” David Hollingshead asked, remaining at the threshold. He was in his mid twenties, with golden brown eyes that looked older than his years. Or tired. Or maybe apprehensive. His clothes were faded, worn thin at stress points, and his shoulder length auburn hair had some kind of white flecks clinging to it. But he was at least clean enough to have no body odor.

An improvement over a lot of the clientele around here.

Laura thought he would have been handsome if the scar on his cheek had been stitched together by more talented hands. He was too thin but otherwise in decent physical shape as far as she could see. He had no telltale signs of drug or alcohol addiction. He was at least taking some care of himself.

“Sarah Fletcher left the department several weeks ago,” Laura said as he finally entered her tiny office and sidled into her guest chair. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“Maybe she told the others. But they didn’t tell me.”

It was her first inkling that David and she were not alone. According to his file, he had originally come to Community Mental Health in 1987 from the psych ward at the Rapid River hospital, diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder. Sarah Fletcher had left a brief note that she concurred with this diagnosis. But his file was surprisingly short on details considering the full reports she’d left on other clients.

“I’ll miss Sarah.” He sounded dejected.

“Yes, I’m sure you will. Transitioning to a new counselor is never easy.” Several of her clients felt abandoned. It was hard on them – on her, too, for that matter, trying to win over people who’d rather she wasn’t there.

“Talking to you upsets some of us. We don’t all like change.”

“I understand. I wasn’t sure if you’d come today since you missed your first appointment.” Laura kept her voice low to begin asserting her authority in a tranquil manner.

“I missed an appointment?” David looked confused. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re here now. I’ve read your file, so I know a little about you. But I’d like to ask you a few questions just for background, okay?”

“We’ll see how it goes,” he said with the hint of a smile, and he settled into the chair as if he planned to stay for a while. He could meet her gaze, unlike many of her clients. In fact, his eyes seemed fastened on her, the way a prey animal might be alert to a predator.

“Did Sarah discuss your diagnosis with you?”

He was clutching the edge of her desk, and she could see the tension in his slender hands. He lifted one and pointed to his own head. “Yes. She said I’m not alone in here. I didn’t believe it. But then I worked it out, and she was right.”

“I know you don’t trust me yet, David. I understand that will take time. But if you listen to me, I will do the same for you. And we’ll continue working on it together.”

He shifted, hooking his feet around the chair’s front legs.

“I thought you could tell me a little about your job,” Laura said, choosing the easiest place for many people to start talking about themselves.

David never took his eyes off her. She began to feel like the target of a dissection, skin peeled back and organs exposed. It was difficult for her not to glance down to check whether her buttons were all behaving.

Finally he said, “We don’t like it in here. It’s too tight.”

“Yes, the room is very small. Would you like to move your chair closer to the door? I could open it, but I don’t want you to worry that we’d be overheard.”

“Being shut in,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “It scares the Little Ones.”

She felt a tingle of excitement. The Little Ones?

She needed to solve this simple issue of space if he was to believe she could help with harder problems. “Would a room with windows help?”

He nodded. Laura called Lovella the receptionist to book the downstairs conference room. “Let’s move there, David. We’ll meet there until they, ah, the Little Ones, know they can trust me.”

For the rest of the session, they sat together, the only two people in a conference room that could easily seat sixteen. A glass wall separated them from the sounds and activity at the front reception desk. Vertical blinds screened the windows that faced the street corner, but strong sun filtered through. It was often sunny here in Oregon’s high desert country, not as gray as Portland where Laura had lived before.

“This is better,” David said.

Laura read the relaxation in his body language. “Good. Then we’ll meet here until my office is comfortable for you. Now, can you tell me about your job?”

“I’m a pretty good woodworker, cabinet maker, any kind of finish carpentry,” he said. “That’s what I did when I was on the road a lot.”

Ah! That explains the white flecks in his hair. It’s sawdust. Laura felt like a detective who had interpreted a clue.

As the session progressed, David lost the wariness that had accompanied him into her office. When their time ended, Laura felt they had made a good start. Maybe he’d come to accept her in place of Sarah Fletcher.

And maybe she’d come to accept his diagnosis. Crazy as it sounded.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

“He said he’d diaper babies or old people if he had to, but not me,” Diaper Man howled.

Dr. Laura bit her cheeks to keep a straight face as her client described his break up with the guy he called his main man, his hunka hunka, his love torch.

Diaper Man was a middle-aged schizophrenic. He also enjoyed wearing a diaper. This in itself would not have been issue enough for him to receive free counseling, since it wasn’t exactly a threat to society. But it’s what he most liked to talk about.

Laura listened then reminded him about the dangers of hanging around public restrooms to find another soul mate. She saw to it that he got his anti-psychotic meds from the psychiatrist and made it clear that he mattered to her as well as to all the other people at Community Mental Health. That reassurance was really what he needed most.

As the only PhD in Rapid River’s Community Mental Health Department, Laura spent her days conducting client psychological testing for all the other counselors. Her own caseload was enormous as well. Some clients like Diaper Man could hold a job, but most were so disoriented or disabled that employment was out of the question. They lived in hole-in-the-wall apartments or missions or alleys. She was their last line of defense, and she vowed to do everything for them that her education, experience and emotions prepared her to do.

She had her favorites, of course. Like David Hollingshead. After their first appointment, David always appeared on schedule. Laura went down to the lobby to meet him each time and escort him into the conference room.

As she came down the stairs, she could often hear him chat with the ancient receptionist. Lovella had a face as wrinkled as a shar-pei and skin the color of a rich mocha. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back with dagger-length clips, and God help the strand that tried to escape. Her most startling feature was her bosom, encased today in a starched white blouse. Laura figured the breasts beneath must be the size of Big Gulp drinking cups. Nothing about the old girl seemed the least bit soft except she appeared to dote on David. Today, her face was cracked open in what could only be called a smile. But after Laura collected David, Lovella immediately returned to her dour self.

“You!” she snapped at the frail looking fellow sitting on a straight backed waiting room chair. “Don’t tear pages out of that magazine. I’m not telling you again.”

Laura closed the conference room door, enjoying the sunny room as much as David did. It was time for him to confront issues over his failed marriage, so she got to it as soon as they were seated. “In your file, I see that you and your wife have separated.”

David looked ill at ease. “That’s not easy to talk about, Dr. Laura.”

“No. Most of our work together will be hard.”

“Well … if it’s important. Cathy cleared out. Has her own place now.”

“Did she know about your diagnosis?”

“She beat feet before the hospital shrink gave it a name.”

“He said in your record that you were losing time, that intervals would pass and you wouldn’t know what happened. Did Cathy know about that?”

He brushed a forelock of auburn hair back from his eyes. “She just thought I was spacey. ‘Earth to David,’ she’d say. Complained I never listened to her, that I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on. But mostly, I don’t know, I guess we were just apart a lot.” David began to swivel the conference room chair back and forth. Laura read it as nervous tension.

Could a wife really not know her husband was losing time? Or is David just very good at hiding it?

“Why were you apart so much?”

He stopped to light a cigarette. None of her clients was fazed by the new anti-smoking craze. They all still puffed away. She thought he should be spending the money on food instead.

“Cathy worked late a lot. She wanted the overtime. I was building houses as far away as Medford. Our crew stayed in crappy motels all week. Everybody got tanked at nights just ‘cause we were bored. I thought I passed out from booze a lot. Turns out, I was losing time.  I’d sometimes wake up with aches and wounds I couldn’t explain.” He cocked his head and rubbed a finger down the red scar on his cheek. “No idea what happened here. Anyway, our crew only got back to Rapid River on weekends. I’d see Cathy then, if she wasn’t working all the time.”

“When did things start to change for you two?”

David stared out toward the reception area, but Laura doubted he was actually seeing anything as he reminisced. A kind of dissociation common for us all.

“My boss bolted a while back, leaving a lot of unpaid bills. Work isn’t easy to come by anymore. Sometimes my church hires me to build furniture they can sell. It’s not a lot, but I thought at least I wouldn’t have to travel so much. I could be with my wife more.” His eyes misted with tears. “It wasn’t long after I stopped travelling that Cathy left me.”

Laura gave him time – and Kleenex – to regain his composure then asked, “Did she say why?”

“She started to gripe about money, and we fought about it. Then one day, she said I scared her, even slapped her. But I can’t believe that. I don’t remember any of it. I love her. I’d never hurt her.”

He certainly looked innocent, golden brown eyes as imploring as an animal shelter poster. But for the first time, Laura felt a prickle of apprehension. Should I be alone with this man? She could see Lovella and the activity around the reception desk, so she felt safe enough to continue. “Why would Cathy say you hurt her if you didn’t?”

He stopped swiveling the chair and leaned toward her. “I’ve thought a lot about that. I think she wants to punish me for losing my job.”

“What finally made her leave?”

“I didn’t get it. She accused me of having another woman. I said it wasn’t true. And it wasn’t. But, then she said she’d actually seen me with some bimbo, at a bar one night when she stopped with her friends after work. So then she thought I was not just a cheat but a liar. And she walked out.”

He took a deep ragged breath and leaned back. “The thing is I really didn’t have another woman. At least not one I remember. I went ballistic.”

“I’m not surprised. That kind of event is called a stressor.”

“I was angry, felt lost. Without a job, without my wife, not knowing what to believe, well, I fell apart. The shrink used a word–”

“Decompensation.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Cops picked me up where I passed out in an alley. I was liquored up, been cut pretty bad. They took me to the emergency room. Once the docs patched up my gut, they wheeled me down to the psych ward. Kept me ten days, booted me out, and told me to come here.”

When she’d had her corporate job, people came to Laura between meetings with sales and marketing, not after a life threatening fight in an alley. Her clients here at Community Mental Health lived very close to the edge. Crisis to them meant a lot more than a down quarter. She still wasn’t used to the violence.

“Let’s talk more about losing time,” she said.

But David was done talking for the day. “I think it’s time you meet the others,” he said, rising to leave. “I’ll bring them next session. Some of them want a word with you.”

***

Later that afternoon, Laura was reviewing her notes when she heard a knock on the frame of her open door.

“Laura, could I speak with you a moment?” said Tom McClaren, her boss. His carrot top clashed with his florid complexion, but his Howdy Doody freckles didn’t fool her. She knew he had the street smarts to be of enormous value to the department, especially when it came to negotiating federal, state and county codes and funding.

She turned off her tape recorder, shut her notebook and invited him into her office with a smile. “It’s nothing much, but mi casa es su casa.”

“This isn’t exactly a social call. I hear that you’ve been using the conference room to see one of your clients.” Howdy Doody frowned.

“Yes. David Hollingshead has issues with a small room with no windows.” She indicated her office with a hand gesture worthy of Vanna White.

“Why’s that?”

“He says the Little Ones get scared.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Not that again.” Tom rolled his eyes. “By now he should be comfortable with you.”

Laura stiffened, not liking her competence to be questioned. “He is comfortable with me. Just not with the office. I see nothing wrong with using the conference room as long as it’s available.”

“Well, the department does. It just doesn’t look good. It’s for government or hospital conferences, not individual counseling.”

“But I still don’t –”

“So please conduct your sessions in your office from now on. And keep in mind, these people are very cunning. They can fool you. With your corporate background, you might be a little, oh, shall we say naïve about them. You need to control them, not the other way around.” With that, he left her office.

Must be hard to walk with a stick so far up your butt. A hot blush of anger crept up her chest and neck. She thought she’d left officialdom behind in the corporate world back in Portland, but she was finding the red tape pretty binding here, too.

The next week, Lovella called her from reception when David arrived. “Oh, and you should know there’s a meeting in the conference room.”

“But I booked it for this morning,” Laura protested. She had ignored Tom’s request.

“You been trumped by the Man.”

“I’ll be right down.” She grabbed her coat, purse, and notebook, then galloped down the stairs. David was standing at the reception desk, talking with Lovella. Laura shot an angry look at the group in the conference room and saw Tom grin back at her. She controlled herself enough not to flip a bird at him then said to David, “How about we go for a walk today? I’ll buy you a Coke and we’ll talk.”

“That’s okay, Dr. Laura. The Little Ones say they’ll be all right in your office now that they know who you are.”

Barriers were coming down with her client if not with her boss. She hated having to clamber back up the stairs, humiliated by Tom’s pleasure in besting her. But she reminded herself that this was about David, not about her. So back up the stairs she went. David took a seat in her office while she put her purse in her desk drawer and hung her coat on the back of the door. Then she looked at him, indicating the door with her hand, “Okay?”

He nodded, and Laura shut it. She took her seat, turned toward him and began, “I’m sorry about the conference room. We don’t always see eye to eye, but Mr. McC –”

“Fucker doesn’t know his head from his dick.” David’s face was a mask of anger.

Startled, Laura said, “Well, you needn’t worry about him, David. I can –”

“Who you calling David? I’m not that pussy.”

Laura’s heart beat a little faster. She’d heard lectures about it, read about it, but … “Then who are you?”

“I’m Weasel. I speak for the Defenders. The others don’t do shit without my say so.” Weasel seemed to take more space, as if David had puffed himself up.

The hair on the back of Laura’s neck stiffened. “Where is David?”

Other than sitting right here in front of me. Holy shit!

“He’s taking a little time out.” Weasel’s face was far more animated than David’s. He leaned back and sprawled his legs out in front of him, balls forward. A challenging posture. Sure of himself. Macho.

“Is he being punished?”

“He should have slapped that fucking boss of yours from here to Toledo.” Weasel bared his teeth, an expression totally alien on David’s mild countenance.

Laura fought the instinct to back away. “No! There will be no threats to any member of this staff.”

Including me. Especially me.

“Yeah. That last do-gooder was a pussy, too,” Weasel said, appearing disgusted.

“Do you mean Sarah?” Laura asked while her head was saying wait, just a minute, give me time to process this.

“That’s the one. She was scared of the prick, too.” Weasel/David removed a toothpick from his shirt pocket and began to chew on it. “Some of the Forum liked her, though.”

“What is the Forum?”

For the next half hour, Weasel the Defender spun a tale bizarre enough for The Twilight Zone. Almost none of it had been in Sarah’s notes. It was electrifying for Laura, like watching one man play different roles.

Dr. Jekyll, meet Mr. Hyde. Eve, here are your three faces.

Laura learned that David and Sarah had developed the Forum together. It was a senate inside David with three representatives of different personality types called the White Hats, the Little Ones, and the Defenders. Together, through bickering, wheedling, and bullying, they held sway over David, the host who most often faced the public. Any of the others could take over, make him feel pain or keep him from it.

“That last mindfucker said we have to keep the pussy safe, or we’re all in danger.”

“That last mindfucker was right.” Laura heard nothing but Weasel. Not the clock, not people in the hall, not the fan oscillating through its slow pattern. Nothing existed for her but David and, well, whomever.

“Now that Sarah left us, I could kill him for all she cares.” Weasel spat the toothpick into Laura’s wastebasket.

“That’s not true. You all still need to take care of David. There’s only one body. Kill him and you all die.”

Kill? Die? What am I saying?

“Who has to take care of me?” David asked, his body gathering into a less pugnacious posture and his facial features returning to benign. “Which one are you talking to?”

“David?” Laura asked, her voice the least bit unsteady.

“Of course it’s me.” David smiled. “You better be careful, Dr. Laura, or people will think you’re as crazy as I am.”

***

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