The Writer's Life: The Writer's Life 8/30

Not much action for the floating book shop in Park Slope today, although the two items I sold were different in terms of marketability: a DVD of a comedy in French with subtitles, The Closet, and a work of non-fiction titled Companeros about migrant workers. My thanks to the gentlemen who bought them, and to the lovely teenage girl who gave me a free sample of DavidsTea, a shop at the corner of 7th Avenue and 4th Street. I'm by no means a connoisseur, but it did not taste anything like tea. One of the ingredients was peanut butter, and it was unsweetened. It's not something I would buy.

I thought I'd finished the collection I plan for the new year, but, since I'd included a one-act play and two screenplays, I decided to add a teleplay I'd written for a short-lived Fox anthology series of the 90's produced by Martin Scorsese. I reduced the font of the file to eleven-point so that the total package will be around 300 pages. It will probably be a bit more, as I will be adding the preliminary pages and a break between each work, and a list of the magazines where the stories that have already seen the light of day were published. Here's the first few pages of Not So Black and White, which is about race relations. It's a few minutes read:

A physically fit, well-groomed white male of 40, dressed casual and neat, attache case in hand, is making his way out of a subway station, smiling. As he approaches the turnstiles, a young black male vaults them from the opposite side.
“Pay your fare, jerko,” the man, whose voice is raspy, says contemptuously, his accent that of a native New Yorker.
“Shut up!” the other sneers, racing away.
On a staircase leading to the street, three white, disheveled homeless men are gathered, two leaning against a wall, the other seated on the ground. A pint bottle enclosed in a paper bag stands among them. They ask for a hand-out, one slurring markedly. The man with the attache case, head bowed, ignores them.
“Have a nice day, anyway,” says the one who is seated.
The man represses a chuckle. As he reaches the street, he spots a black male in his early 30’s, also dressed casual and neat, walking toward him. He breaks into an infectious smile. The two greet each other warmly, shaking hands.
“How you doin’, Lionel?” says the white male.
“What’s up, Danny?” Lionel’s voice is also raspy.
“What brings you to the neighborhood?”
“What else?”
Dan is surprised. “Still single?”
“Yeah. I’m not ready yet. Maybe when I have as much money as you.”
Dan smiles self-consciously.
“I can’t believe you ride the subway,” Lionel chuckles.
“It’s still the fastest way to get around. Two stops, five minutes -- can’t beat it, especially at the price.”
Now Lionel is laughing. Dan shakes his head, amused himself at his frugality.
“Some days I walk. All that money and I still can’t shake my family’s immigrant mentality. How’re things in Gold?”
Lionel shakes his head. “Bad. Did you ever time your move right.”
Dan shrugs. “Sometimes you get lucky.”
“We haven’t had a real move since you left. And what’d that one last - a month?”
“I can’t believe how many guys stuck with metals.”
“A lot of ‘em are really hurtin’. Some had to take second jobs. We’re nowhere without inflation.”
“It’s always around the corner. The politicians’ll screw up like they always do.”
“That’s what we’re hopin’.”
“You suppose we’ll go to hell for capitalizing’ on people’s misery?”
Lionel males a face. “We don’t cause these things. We just react to ‘em. Should the whole ship go down? Somebody’s gotta make money to keep it floatin’.”
Dan smiles knowingly. “You’ve learned your lessons well. You’ve come a long way since that animal hired you and we had you goin’ to the tenth floor for coffee.”
“There’s no tenth floor?” says Lionel, embarrassed.
“Listen, there’s a place in the neighborhood called Harry’s. Your girl’ll know about it. They’re havin’a beatnik night tonight. It’s a lotta fun. I’m gonna get up and make a fool of myself. Come by.”
Lionel is intrigued. “I’ll see what she says. She’s the boss.”
“Aren’t they always?”
“Let me get goin’. Give my regards to Nina.”
“I will.”
Dan crosses the street. A woman of middle eastern heritage, holding the hand of a toddler, emerges from a doorway and quietly pleas for money. Dan digs into his pocket for his money clip and, although he finds nothing smaller than a 20, surrenders a bill. She thanks him and promises to repay.
“Forget it,” he says, raising a hand, avoiding her gaze. Shaken, eyes glazed, he enters a small grocery store.
“Que tal, amigo?” the middle age man at the counter says, smiling. “Como esta su mujer?”
“Bien, todo bien, gracias,” he returns in an unpolished inflection. “Como va la vida?”
“Bien, bien, gracias a Dios.”
As he’s collecting items, milk, bread, etc., his beeper sounds. He frowns as he notes the number paging him.
“Can I use your phone, Carlos?” he says politely to the proprietor.
“Si, si, vien,” says the man, encouraging him demonstratively.
He dials. A young man of Hispanic descent, seated in an office, paper work before him, answers.
“What’s up, Lu?” says Dan.
“You have a hundred-lot out.”
“What?” says Dan angrily, turning away from a customer whose attention he has attracted. “With who?”
“Guess.”
“Again? I’ll ring that lowlife’s neck. What price?”
“He doesn’t know it at all.”
Dan flails at the air with the receiver, muttering. “That’s what I get for bein’ stupid enough to trade with him. When am I gonna learn? Some people are just slime. Who’s the customer?”
“Marilyn.”
“Figures. Alright, put it in my account.”
“File a grievance.”
“It’s not worth the hassle. Let’s see where the market comes in tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“You’re too soft.”
He hangs up. “Gracias, amigo,” he says, patting Carlos gently on the back.
“De nada. Trouble, my friend?”
“The world’s full of thieves.” He pauses, searching for the Spanish equivalent. “Ladrons?”
“I know. Two times they rob me last year, hijos de putas.” He shapes his hand into a revolver.
Dan stares. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. I never have to face a gun. Thanks for puttin’ things in perspective for me.”
Groceries in one hand, attaché in the other, he enters a loft building. Two men, satchels over their shoulders, are waiting for the elevator. Dan fidgets. Boarding, he stands as far from the others as possible and stares at his shoes.

Vic's 5th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/okxkwh5Vic's 4th novel: tinyurl.com/bszwlxh

Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3

Vic's Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
Vic's Short Story Collection: http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tiny.cc/0iHLb Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kx3d3uf
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tinyurl.com/l84h63j

Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp

Vic's Horror Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f

Vic's Blog: http://vicfortezza.blogspot.com/

Vic's Web Site: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/