The Writer's Life 1/20 - Breaks

It was a grind today. I squeezed into a parking space that left me only inches of space front and back, then hauled a couple of crates worth of books to 9th St. just below 5th Av. in Park Slope, a spot that had been good to me the last two times I'd set up shop there. I guess those sessions were the exception, not the rule. Aside from a couple of inquiries that didn't pan out, the floating book shop met with indifference from the public. Fortunately, it was a beautiful day, so much so that I stayed an extra hour, as I hate to go home without having made a single sale. It didn't help, but it wasn't a total loss, as I ran into a couple of people I hadn't seen in a few years. Frankie, a porter in our building until the sudden passing of his wife forced him into full time care for his handicapped son, came out of nowhere to give me a hug. He's living in Red Hook, near his daughter. He was always there whenever I needed help. Later, a sweetheart of a woman who was a manager at the Chase bank on Bay Pkwy & 85th approached. Two years ago she'd transferred to the one at my back. "Still with the books," she said. Yeah, still crazy after all these years. The worst aspect of such a day is the haul back to the car, the load not lightened by even a single book. Since I stayed longer than usual, I hit school bus traffic. I was halfway home along Ocean Pkwy when things took a turn for the worse. As I approached Avenue M, I heard an ambulance siren. I hit the breaks and the old Hyundai went into a long smoky skid right into the middle of the intersection. Fortunately, the ambulance driver wasn't reckless. It wasn't close to a collision. but had he been speeding I would be in the hospital right now -- or the morgue. My brakes were completely out. I drove to the repair shop with my blinkers flashing, keeping a lot of distance between me and the next vehicle. I'm now waiting for Ralph to call with an estimate. I expect it to be a big hit. I suspect both the front and rear will have to be replaced, and whatever doohickeys hold everything in place. I suppose I should be glad it happened now and not during the coming snowstorm. I was lucky.

Here are the first few paragraphs of my first novel, Five Cents. I'm 25 pages into the rewrite:
  Part One: Dreams, Good and Bad
   A bead of sweat slid down Tom Harte’s back, gathering speed as it descended, sending a chill down his spine. The warm, gentle breeze stirred the grass, casting a sweet smell into the air. He could see far beyond the open field to where the hills in the distance seemed to touch the sky. The tranquil setting conjured memories of an outing in the country. It quickly fled from consciousness. His throat was dry, in contrast with the rest of his body, which was soaked in perspiration. He craved a gulp of cool water, but he would not disrupt his concentration by reaching for his canteen.
   The platoon moved across the field. Tom wondered whose number would be called next. Perhaps his own. It was a cruel lottery of frightening odds and unpredictable results. They were ordinary young Americans from all walks of life who had answered their country’s call, faithfully banded together despite their differences, most longing for the day service would end. There were always a few who would re-up.
   The silence was creepy. Tom could hear the squirming in his stomach, the squishing of his boots in the moist earth. He almost wished action would begin just to relieve the tension. Suddenly a roar ahead and to the right filled his ears so that he was deaf to all but the bloodcurdling scream that accompanied it. The blast shook the ground and dislodged the rifle from his grip. His entire life, 20 odd years, flashed before his eyes. A spinning torso passed before him as if it were hurtling through outer space. Martinez? Blood splattered against his face and entered his mouth. In the same instant he received a blow to the head that knocked his helmet off, and one to the groan. His right hand groped for the chain about his neck, his left reached for his crotch. He fell to the ground hard. He heard gunfire. The fighting had begun. He lost consciousness.

Vic's Short Works: http://tinyurl.com/jy55pzc

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