The Strength to Be Gentle

It was Christmas Eve and a cold country night settled on our farm house. Miles from the main highway, that ran through the mountain rimmed valley, our family enjoyed a quiet evening in anticipation of Christmas.
From the clear black night, a knock was laid on the front door. We looked at each other with a start. In all my growing up, I've only heard a knock on that door a handful of times because, in the small farm community, folks drove into the yard and entered through the back door. This was obviously a stranger. My father went to the door and slowly opened it, we watched, curious. There was an ominous layer of the unknown, this could be anything from the best scenario to the worst.
A young man stood behind the storm-door. He explained that his family, a wife and small child, were in the car and he was almost out of gas. I don't know how he found us, but he had driven thirty miles from the last open gas station and had forty miles to go before he came to the next. He'd driven four or five miles off the main road, depending on the route, he drove down a gravel road and turned onto the narrow blacktop that ran past our home.
"Didn't you read the sign that said the next available gas station was seventy miles away?" my father asked. I was surprised by his tone and lack of sympathy. He went on to say something to the effect of, it's very cold out, the roads are empty, you've put your family in real danger. "I won't give you gas, but I will sell you enough to get to the next town," my father finished.
The young man spoke with humility and respect to my dad's authoritative tone.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir. I have money, I would be grateful. Thank you so much."
"Just get your family to safety," my father said and he gave directions to get to gas pumps on our property. "I'll meet you down there."
The young man went into the freezing darkness. My father closed the door, opened the coat closet and pulled out a heavy winter coat. After slipping it on, he reached into the closet and pulled out a large revolver, tucked it into the jacket and as he zipped it up, said, "I'll be right back."
I asked if I could go along, but he said, "No."
I watched the headlights converge at the gas tank we used for farm vehicles. I remember thinking, I hope the stranger doesn't do anything stupid.
My father is a quiet, humble and giving man. It was moments like this that I realized his profound humility came from great strength, not weakness. He'd put this young man on notice that he had been careless with his obligation to protect his family.
The lost boy got enough gas to make it to the next station, but his encounter with a real man of strength gave him a lesson I imagine he won't soon forget.
I've been thinking about masculinity. When a small boy picks up a stick, it becomes a sword or a rifle or a light saber. It is the nature of a boy to think it, a weapon. I think it's harmful to squelch the aggressive nature of a little boy. Instead of telling them to stop, they're going to hurt themselves or someone else, can't we ask them what they're protecting? This aggression, this power, is the breeding ground of peace.
The reason we enjoy the grace of God, isn't because he's weak. We can live, unafraid of death. We can live with profound peace in our hearts. We can live to help others. We can live forgiven. We can do all of this because God is strong. We can face the tragedies of life with hope because God is strong.
I get tired of the male bashing stereotypes all around us, making men look like daft fools. Masculinity misdirected can be destructive, it can lead to murder and violence. However, that same power, directed well, protects. It creates safety. It builds bridges and hospitals. It loves deeply. It stands in the face of evil and turns it away. This kind of power is like a strong arm holding a sleeping child and will not let go. This kind of power stays. This kind of power is solid. You can count on it.
I grew up in a safe home because my father is strong. I live with great peace because my heavenly father is strong.

Camp Christmas Letter

A wiry, pale man in a Santa suit, stuffed generously with large pillows in every available space, stood on a stump next to a snowy path lined with plywood elves. "Ho, Ho, Ho," his mousey voice squeaked, "welcome to Camp Christmas Letter-- where we take Christmas seriously." I should have turned and run, but the thirty-dollar nonrefundable deposit held my feet to the ground. Santa's pants were slipping down in the back, but he had no idea.
"You have two choices," he called, when his pants gave way and fell, resting atop his black leather boots, exposing pillows stuffed inside oversized long-johns. Spontaneous snickers peppered the small crowd, but we held it together. "You can start with the Yuletide Year in Review class or the Reindeer Wreath of Warmth class," he went on, oblivious.
"How about the Brass Belt Buckle of Hope class," some smart alec yelled. In one burst, we laughed, there was no holding back. Santa struggled to look past the stuffing, then realized the problem and quickly dove for his pants. He lost his balance and plunged into the snow. We didn’t know what to do. Several people ducked onto the Reindeer trail and disappeared. I was caught up in a group that went down the Yuletide path. By the time Santa made it back to the stump, pants filled with snow, everyone was gone.
"A great Christmas letter," Mrs. Claus began the class, "starts with remembering every event of the past year." Her red felt dress strained at every seam, she could've easily filled out her husband’s suit. The class began writing frantically. I panicked; I can’t even remember where I parked the car. This was bad. She stared at me, little round glasses pressed into her plump red face. I broke the stare and looked at the paper. "Help!" I scribbled.
Kathy and I turned 50 this year, that's all I could remember. I completely forgot about the great birthday party Amanda threw for us with friends and family - complete with saxophone quartet, my epic guy golf weekend in Palm Springs, Amanda's graduation with honors from Biola University, Lindsay's high school graduation and acceptance into the pre-veterinarian program at Cal Poly Pomona, her experience as a contestant on WIPEOUT (airing in January), my trip to Morocco, Kathy and Amanda's trip to New York with my sister Sharon and niece Laura, Lindsay's incredible experience in Washington State - inseminating cattle and a myriad of things I can't mention, my new boffo lens, none of it came to mind.
Under "Help!" I wrote, "It was a nice year, we did a lot of stuff and nothing really bad happened." Suddenly a stick, decorated like a candy cane, slapped across my paper, narrowly missing my knuckles. I jumped, the entire class stared. "That's the worst Christmas letter I've ever seen!" Mrs. Kringle scolded, "We take this very seriously!" A perverse sense of joy went through me when I saw her candy cane had broken. Dramatically, she took my paper to the front and tacked it to the wall, next to other, Bad Examples. I was pleased to see that mine was at the top.
Driving down the mountain, I realized how rich we are in family and friends and despite what the "experts" say: It was a nice year, we did a lot of stuff and nothing really bad happened.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

Jerry, Kathy, Amanda and Lindsay








This was our Christmas letter for 2010. I've been so busy with work, that I haven't been able to write and I miss it profoundly. Blessings to you and yours.

The Crime of Masculinity

The video played on the evening news, anchors shook their collective heads and put down the actions of a full grown man, on a school bus, angry and yelling. He threatened two boys and the driver, beside himself with emotion.

A quote on the Florida Today website said: "Most of the media I saw, said it was a disgraceful sight, a man getting angry and yelling at children. Who will protect the children from these attacks? What kind of an animal gets on a bus and yells at children?" We've lost an important part of ourselves. We've lost a component of society essential to the foundation of human decency. We've lost the ability to be masculine.

This man was angry because his daughter, who suffered from cerebral palsy, was the victim of bullying. Boys on the bus teased her and the father reported it to officials, but nothing was done. On this day, the boys were making comments, flicking her ear, then they placed a condom on her head. The kids on the bus laughed and the father couldn't take it any longer. I understand his reaction.

James Willie Jones (the father) was charged with a crime. The sentiment throughout the media sympathized with the poor children, traumatized by this angry man. This is a shame. Why do we coddle these weak minded bullies?

I grew up around real men, who worked the fields, strong men of character. Men who showed by example what it means to protect and provide. Men who aren't afraid of their power and as a result are gentle.

I'm disappointed with the bullies, but I'm willing to bet they don't have an example of true masculinity in their lives. I'm even more disappointed with the other boys on the bus, those weak little boys who laughed. I know I, and my male friends, would've acted differently when we were that age. I'm sure we would've called out the bullies as the cowards they were, "leave her alone, if you want to pick on someone, pick on me - I dare you." James Willie Jones should never have had to set foot on that bus, he should never have had to report bullying to the authorities, but he did because these boys aren't young men. They are sad, weak little boys.

What we get when boys aren't shown how to be real men are testosterone driven disasters. Little boys with energy and power out of control. Boys need masculine influence. (By the way, they need the influence and care of their mother just as importantly). With a good male model the boys on that bus would've risen to protect that innocent girl. Their energy and power should have overwhelmed and humiliated the actions of the bullies.

Are we losing the ability to raise men? I hope not, but I fear, for many, it's too late. You see, when boys are raised with strong men in their lives society gains chivalry, honor, adherence to the law and protection from those who would harm little girls with cerebral palsy simply trying to go to school.

Below is an article that appeared on floridatoday.com:

LAKE MARY — A Florida father who stormed onto a school bus and threatened children because his 13-year-old disabled daughter had been bullied says his actions were also destructive.

James Willie Jones says he also was acting as a bully. He is advocating against bullying in schools and says no parent should copy his behavior.

Jones’ voice cracked and he and his wife, Deborah, openly wept during the emotional news conference Tuesday. He says his daughter suffers from cerebral palsy and he “could not stand by and helplessly watch her suffer.” But he says he apologizes for the way he handled the situation.

Jones was charged last week with disorderly conduct and disturbing a school function for the Sept. 3 incident. He later posted $2,000 bail and was ordered to stay away from the driver and county school buses. (floridatoday.com)

This has been on my mind for the past few days, the evening news played the surveillance of Jones boarding the bus.

Most of the media I saw, said it was a disgraceful sight, a man getting angry and yelling at children. Who will protect the children from these attacks? What kind of an animal gets on a bus and yells at children? The inferences were clear, this man was grossly out of line and charges were pressed against him.

What would make a man act so "incorrectly?" According to Bill Handel, Jones' daughter had cerebral palsy and was often teased. Her father had spoken with school authorities on previous occasions about the teasing. On this day, they flicked her ear, then put a condom on her head, most of the kids on the bus erupted in laughter and Mr. Jones couldn't take it any longer. What happened next, is very easy for me to understand. It's easy for any father of a little girl to understand.

He apologized. He did overreact, he did threaten harm to the bullies and the bus driver, but we've lost something as a society. We've lost control of masculinity. We've lost gallantry, chivalry and honor.

Why is the bulk of our societal anger aimed at the father and virtually none at the bullies? These boys were teasing a little handicapped girl and were rewarded with the laughter of their peers, they were rewarded with the satisfaction that, the one adult who stood up to them, was humiliated and charged with a crime. These boys were seen as victims. It's so sad. The other boys on the bus didn't give them a look, saying - that's pathetic.

The Sting

Received another rejection from a literary agent a few minutes ago. He encouraged me to keep trying, join a literary group, the story has potential but, the market is bad. I don't envy the publisher or literary agent who spend a good amount of their time dishing out reality to people like me.

It stings, but the question is, do I continue to develop CYN or learn and move on to other works? At this point, I'll continue to explore the ebook route.

Ouch.

Run to Daylight - Progress Report

I'm putting the final touches on the manuscript and it should be finished in the next weekish. I submitted it to only one agent and was rejected (several months ago). This agent has been so overwhelmed with unsolicited material that she can't service her clients properly and no longer accepts new work. I've found this to be common and because of that, I'm taking a different route.

I'm in the process of making the manuscript available as an ebook. As soon as I'm finished with this edit, I'll upload it.

Arrogance Opposite

I went back to the arboretum the other day. A college student, carrying a camera, saw me with my camera and approached.

"There's a hawk in a tree on the other side of the creek," he said and took me to it (I imagine the same one I photographed in the previous post). He pointed it out and I got more photos of this magnificent animal. I noticed the young man, taking pictures of flowers, nearby.

I asked if he would like to try my lens on his camera. I could see his excitement. He took several shots, it was a pleasure to watch him.

I remember when I was learning to take pictures with my little lens. There was wonder when I saw a photographer with a big expensive lens. It was fun to give this young college student the opportunity. The young lady who felt compelled to tell me the conditions were unsuitable for taking a photo missed what the gracious young man experienced.

It really is a key to life, be nice.

Is this Arrogance?

It seems to me that arrogance is confidence with nothing to back it up.

I was struck by the above thought when I saw a hawk in a tree at the Fullerton arboretum. As I was shooting, a young woman (in her late twenties) approached with a nice camera and lens. Quietly I pointed out the hawk. She looked up and took one shot. When I moved on, she started talking to me about how the light was wrong. She spoke with authority about how she knew how to read lighting conditions, how she didn't waste time taking bad shots. She insinuated that I could learn from listening to her, she was confident, but it came across as arrogance to me.

I don't know, perhaps I'm the arrogant one. I do know this, there was plenty of light.

The Therapy of Thinking

I define luxury as; Long periods of uninterrupted thought.

With a week to myself, I went on vacation, at home.  I was giddy with the waterfall of options.  I could ride my motorcycle into the mountains and photograph the sunrise over Malibu or tuck myself in a secluded corner of a small coffee shop and write for days.  Instead, I ate leftover fried chicken for breakfast and rested.  I walked along the beach.  I watched the sunrise over Corona Del Mar, walked along the back bay in Newport at dawn.  I did what one should do when one goes on vacation, vacate.  I avoided the phone, the office, social events and something that surprised me, creativity.  I took a vacation from creativity.

I spend so much of my time thinking about how to compose a picture, what to take a picture of, how this logo should look, how that magazine ad should layout, this design and that design.  I am constantly in a mode of creativity, I thought that a week to myself would be a grand journey of wild imagination and highly productive creative inspiration.  In the end, I rested.  I did take pictures and created some designs for a client, I wrote, but nothing grand.

I was frustrated with myself after the first couple of days, I had to accomplish something and it had to be big.  I began to realize that I needed to simply think, without interruption, about nothing in particular.  I thought about why I was frustrated.  I thought about why I had to create something grand.  I thought about who I am, who I was and what I hoped I'd be.  I wandered along ancient memories without apology or boundary.  Broaching subjects that ranged from suicide to euphoria, silly nonsense to deep wounds and whether the Raiders preseason play, justified optimism for this season.  I smoked a cigar, sat in the backyard and smoked a cigar, long and slow.

Toward the end of the week I realized that I didn't need to create something big, capture the perfect picture or write a profound work, I needed to think.  It was a perfect vacation, I didn't have laundry or jet lag, I wasn't exhausted or broke - I rested.  I emerged satisfied with who I am, flaws, disappointments and all.

April's September

This is the beginning of a new work, I would appreciate feedback on what it makes you feel - not worried about rules, merely what you think is happening and what it makes you think, if it makes you think at all.

September 10, 2001

Sargent was out.  She had escaped her dim life.  The midnight asphalt appeared in the headlights, then raced under the better part of three Cameros, as fast as her heart was beating.

She looked in the side mirror, then back over her shoulder into the black.  The two-lane road vanished in the amber glow of the taillights.  No one was behind them, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was out there, running through the sagebrush like a ghost.

She looked at Tristan, the mechanic she'd met at the Busted Knuckle garage a month before, his slender calloused fingers gripped the wheel.  His skinny arms poked out of a sleeveless Metalica tee-shirt and the lights from the dash cast shadows across his face.  There was a cigarette pinched between his slight lips and smoke hung under the bill of his cap before being pulled out through a crack in the back window.  

The Camero was mostly blue, but one door was faded yellow, one was primer gray and the hood was black, he salvaged three Cameros and was proud to have turned them into one decent car.  She didn't know much about him, but she was eighteen and didn't have many options, Tristan was her best hope, tonight he was saving her.

Sargent guessed Tristan was twenty-two or twenty-three, he graduated from high school the year before she started and in their small Idaho town people were often identified by their graduating class.  She knew one of the waitress at Lilly's Diner was in Tristan's class and she was twenty-two.

Tristan had a reputation for doing crazy things, it was rumored that he once stole a pig and let it go in the new gymnasium.  He claimed he didn't know the janitor was on vacation, the pig died and ruined part of the gym floor.  He had been arrested for petty theft and had a laundry list of driving violations.  He knew all thirteen of the towns patrol officers by name and they knew him.

The 50th revolution

I didn't turn 50, it turned me.

I stand in at doorway, looking back.

I remember 16, gliding through the sagebrush on a dirt-bike, a twist of the throttle and the world changed.  The intense focus.  The athleticism.  The creativity.  The edge.  Sixth gear and a huge grin, flying over an old wash, unafraid.  The pleasure was sublime.

I see a teenager in a small radio station, spinning 45's and talking into a mic.  I experienced the curious sensation of people I've never met, feeling as if they knew me.  A store clerk recognized my voice and gushed on about the songs I played.  A girl often called me at the radio station, late Friday's, and make special requests to help her go to sleep.  Ultimately, I was in a room by myself, drifting through speakers within a 50 mile radius.  Entertaining people, but only imagining the smiles and tapping fingers.  It was a lonely thrill.

The locker room is a bastion of testosterone, an obnoxious soup of muscle and slicing sarcasm.  There are few secrets, you dish out the insults and you take them in a cloud of laughter.  Then you step onto the field, one team, one person.  The boys, together, one cause.  What I wouldn't give to do it again.

The first time I stepped onto a stage with a part in a high school play was the first time I'd ever experienced a play of any type.  (Funny, I remember in college seeing a play for the first time and thinking, it's fun from this side of the curtain too).  The thrill of an audience responding to your timing, knowing they're with you, is magnificent.

I didn't think I'd be this melancholy about a birthday, but it feels as if I need to turn around and reacquaint myself with myself.  I want to race through the desert, drift through speakers, slam into a diving receiver and watch the ball tumble to the ground.  I want to step onto the stage again.  I need to walk through the pieces of my youth, scoop them up and breech the threshold of 50 with fresh optimism.  I can't do the things I used to, but I think I threw away the mindset with the ability.

I hope to live from 50 on, with the optimistic hope I had when I was young.

I didn't turn 50, it turned me...

It's not you, it's me - Continued

I interviewed for a job at Insight for Living.  The interview went very well and they asked if I would return for another.  The second time they asked me to leave my portfolio so they could show some of the managers.  I was asked to come back and interview with a top manager.  I thought it was a very comfortable and positive meeting  (A friend who used to work for them said that was a very good sign).

I never heard from them again.  I followed up several times, then I stopped bugging them, they still had my portfolio.  Finally, several weeks later, I asked if I could get my portfolio, they seemed to have forgotten all about it.  I entered the lobby of their beautiful offices, wishing very much to work there, unceremoniously picked up my portfolio from an unconcerned receptionist and made the long lonely walk to the parking lot.  They made no attempt to contact me.  No attempt to say we're sorry, you didn't get the job or you stink - nothing.

It's the lack of communication that doesn't sit well.  Like a girlfriend who dumps you with no reason.  It made me feel so small, worthless.  I've moved on and have a nice career as a graphic designer & photographer, but I have to admit - the "what if" has a place in the deep dark corners of my mind.  I suppose I should be glad not to have been hired by a company that treats people that way, but I feel like it's something I did or said wrong.  The problem is, I have no idea what it was, not a clue.

The curious part of myself is why don't I think, "It's their loss," or "They made a mistake."  The tiny little haunt is, what did I do wrong...

It's not you, it's me.

Rejection - It's not you, it's me

     It happened with no fanfare.  I was excited, thinking of it the second I awoke and lingering on the thought throughout the day, a job in my new field of graphic design.  The ad agency was in a high rise, behind two thick wooden doors, the employees were young and lived on caffeinated soft drinks from the fridge.  They were hip and sophisticated, the thought of joining the atmosphere, contributing to it, was intoxicating.  It's what I'd quit my aerospace procurement job for, it was my hope.  I worked on a project for the Quakes, a minor league baseball team, as part of the interview.  Things were going very well, but when I presented a file I'd manipulated to make the logo more useful (for the geeks, I outlined the bitmap logo and created a clean vector file), the young manager was surprised.  It seemed as if I'd ambushed or embarrassed him.  "How did you do that?" he questioned, at once excited to have a workable vector file, baffled and perhaps insulted.  I didn't pick up on it right away, but subsequently have mulled it over in varying degrees for years.  I think I only picked up on the excited part of his reaction at the time.  I said something like, "I outlined it by hand."  Happy to have a skill that impressed him.  He had the file rushed off to be used in countless ads and promotions, obviously pleased.
     When I left the office, I never heard from him again.  I called, but he was never "available."  I didn't make a pest of myself, if he didn't want me, that was the end.  I visit that haunt from time to time, in my mind.  Like an athlete lamenting a dropped ball.  What did I miss?  Could I have done something differently to achieve a different outcome?

I'm mulling over this and another rejection from years ago...  I'll post more later.

We Choose

She was an unquestionable example of good. My sister-in-law Teresa was a brilliantly beautiful woman who had a life of great physical suffering, but no bitterness. She lost a young daughter in a car accident that almost killed Teresa and left her with permanent injury. Breast cancer developed in her small body and for ten years, she fought like a champion. Many things happened, but my intent isn't to spell out the long list of tragedy and obstacle. My mind dwells on the idea that Teresa was good.

I watched a documentary on the Green River Killer and was stricken by the fact that I was looking at a man who was evil. He did things that were sick, but he wasn’t mentally dysfunctional. He had a house, an ex-wife, a child that lived with him, a skilled job, but he did things that were unbelievable. Again, I’m not interested in spelling out a list. He was evil.

These examples of good and evil suggest that humans are more than animated chemicals. Gary Ridgway had a bad experience with a prostitute in the service and came away with hate. This hate boiled and festered, he dwelt in it and gave in to the evil that comes when hatred is fed.

Teresa, on the other hand, responded to the bad experience of losing her daughter and a horrible accident by relying on the good that God brought into her life. She dwelt on the good. Her husband told me once that even in private, when she could’ve complained or given into the disappointment, she was strong. One of the last things she said to me was, “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but I wouldn’t trade it because it brought me closer to God.”

Today, I was thinking about good and evil. Deny it if you will, but these are two examples that show me we are responsible to feed one or the other.

If you’re interested in hearing the farewell message Teresa recorded for her memorial service check it out on youtube (watch part 1 & 2): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0IwRj23gqM
or go to YouTube and search Teresa Evans.

Wading and waiting and wading

I'm wading through lists of publishers and literary agents. I'm fumbling in the dark and wondering what treasures are waiting to be discovered. The unknown can be intoxicating.

I'm debating between submitting to a New York or Los Angeles agent. I'm leaning toward New York.

Note: Submission is an appropriate description of the process.

Seldom is Heard...

True teachers are, at their core, skilled encouragers. They have a way of seeing desire and ability, in a person, and meld them with their words and insights. This is an intuitive ability that is far more than the passing, atta boy - keep up the good work. They inspire in ways that are life changing.

I was reminded of that through an encounter with a former college professor last week.

Thank you, Dana.

Momentum

I've lost momentum. This trip to Africa has taken all of my creative energy. I need to get the ball rolling again on this novel. I'm beginning with this entry, as of now I'm spending two hours a day working on the book.

Once momentum is lost, it's daunting to get it back. It makes me realize how good it was when writing every morning was a regular part of my routine.

Here's to good habits, good energy and good results. It begins... again.

A prison in Africa....

Three D

I've been asked to speak at a father/daughter bar-b-que this Wednesday. The girls are second through sixth grade. The theme is "Three D's" Daughters, Dads and Dogs.

As a dad we posses two very distinct aspects. At once we are a father and a daddy.

The father role is to protect, guide and shape the lives of the precious girls God has entrusted to us.

The daddy role is to play, laugh and forgive.

The distinctly different roles can be difficult to amalgamate. It can also be difficult to know when which is required. Sometimes we're daddys when we should be fathers and fathers when we should be daddys. It's a complex dynamic, a man trying to do right by a little girl. A little girl he loves more than he ever thought he could. A precious life he would die for without a second of hesitation.

As I work through the theme and the dynamics of communicating to this diverse group I'm developing a comparison.

Puppies are happy. Dogs are excited to greet you. They love you, they are forgiving. They are like a daddy.

Seeing-eye dogs are faithful. They are responsible to see what can't be seen. They lead through the dark, confusing times. They are like a father.

As a dad, we are two things.

I pray I can communicate these pictures well.

Sink or swim

I apologize for taking so long to post anything - I've been on a bit of a "walkabout."

I'm drowning in a sea of images. After a fast paced trip through several cities in northern Africa, meeting people, riding trains and tasting the culture, I'm left with a lifetime of experiences. So much happened in such a short period that I'm not sure I have the skill to relay the stories with the richness they deserve.

Traversing the ancient cities was fascinating. Old and new rubbing together nonchalantly. A new Mercedez waiting at a stop light next to a donkey cart.

I'll continue later, but I need to flesh this out, before I drown.

Count on change

I've always said... if there's one thing you can count on,it's change.

After a brief conversation with a friend I will be in northern Africa a month from tomorrow.

I've been so busy with work that I haven't written. Hopefully that will change next week.

CommaKazi

I finished updating the Cyn manuscript. Lori did a great job editing. I need to expand a few areas and fix some passages, but this edit is almost complete. After that, one more read-through and I'll submit the manuscript.

Freelance (he deserves a break)

I've been a freelance artist for around 20 years. For the past two weeks I've been working on the photography for Biola Youth Theatre. It's an intense time commitment, but I'll be back to a more reasonable schedule in the next couple of days.

What is it about teenage girls that makes them say - I look so ugly or I hate how I look in that photo - no matter how beautiful, whimsical or dramatic the shot?

It weighs on me more than it should.

Cyn - Chapter 1

For a couple of days I've swum in doubt. I've slept fitfully in the quagmire of uncertainty. The prospect of failure is a rich breading ground for confusion. I've worked on Cyn for several years - admittedly the first couple aimlessly. Now I'm wondering if I should put it on hold and put my efforts toward The J.A.S.O.N. File.

I'm looking for clarity. Below I've posted the first chapter. I covet your opinion. The genre is a romantic adventure. The story is based on reality, not fantasy and designed simply to entertain. My goal is to provide a good clean read.

Please post your comments - if you want to do it anonymously that's fine.

I realize it's difficult to read in this format. Feel free to copy and paste into a format that's more comfortable for you. Remember this is copy written material and for your personal review only. ©J.R. Hetrick 2009

Chapter 1

Sara didn’t expect Dallas to be home. She slipped past his Mercedes, wondering what he would think of her new tennis outfit. She came into the kitchen from the garage, he spun, shocked to see her.
“Sara!” he said, clearly caught off guard, “I thought you were going to be at Corner Brook all afternoon.”
“Beth Anne had her luncheon today. I couldn’t handle two hours of her, ‘I’m the center of the universe’ luncheon.” She looked at him and saw confusion in his eyes. Obviously uncomfortable, he held a thick manila folder with fidgeting hands. The look on his face showed frustration and something uncomfortable like panic. “What’s going on? I expected you to be on your way to Paris by now,” she said, forgetting all about the luncheon.
He let out a long involuntary sigh. This was not how he’d intended to deliver the news. She wasn’t making it easier, in her little tennis dress, another new one no doubt. He’d been caught only a few minutes before he was about to disappear from her life for good. It was almost a clean getaway, but now Dallas would have to make the break while looking into her tearful eyes. He looked at the folder, the vehicle intended to deliver the shocking news. He thought about simply handing it to her, saying, ‘Here, read this,’ and walk away but her presence demanded an answer.
He was about to speak when the door bell suddenly echoed through the house and distracted them from the moment. Mercifully for Dallas, his ride to the airport had arrived; he rushed at the opportunity. Eagerly he darted toward the front door, dropping the folder on the white tile counter.
"That’s my limo," he threw the comment over his shoulder. Why couldn’t the driver have been here five minutes ago? he thought.
“Dallas, what’s going on?”
“Look, I have to go. I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to do this. It’s the last time we’ll see each other.” He hoped to throw her off guard, to stun her into silence, “It’s all in the folder, Sara, I can’t,” his resolve shaken; he fumbled for words “It’s difficult. I don’t know. Look, I’m no good for you. Like I said, it’s all in the folder.”
A line of pelicans swept past their large panoramic windows, accenting a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean. Neither noticed.


“Dallas?” she asked hollowly, as if talking to a stranger, not her husband of ten years. There was an odd taste of steel in her mouth. Confusion pounded in her head, her throat became dry, and tears glossed her eyes. “What are you talking about? Don’t just walk away from me. You can't...”


Dallas had been planning this for almost a year, but his resolve weakened at the sight of his wife’s broken face. He determined not to look at her again, maybe that would be easier. The desperation in her voice almost caused him to stop, but he set his resolve and kept moving toward the door. All he had to do now was get to the car. There could be no turning back; regardless of the pain, he had to keep going. He’d made this choice a long time ago. Dallas eagerly grabbed the door handle and swung one of the large double doors open. A small man in a neatly pressed black suit stood at attention.
“I’m in a hurry,” Dallas snapped at the driver, his back to Sara. The command triggered immediate action as the limo driver grabbed the luggage from the foyer, sped down the walkway, popped the trunk, expertly inserted the bags and was waiting with an open door in a few seconds.
“Dallas, what are you doing? Don’t just walk away from me.” The words were weak and broken on her shattered voice.
“It’s all in the folder,” he spoke in stride, gaining confidence. He hopped quickly into the limo, the door slammed, the driver scurried to the wheel and the large car backed into the street, then disappeared down the incline. Skirting houses perched along the ocean cliffs of Laguna Beach, California, the black limousine disappeared.


Sara stood alone on the walkway, her hands trembling. She knew that in the past year things had slowly changed - an absence in his kiss, the briefness of his hug, a distant preoccupation (she attributed to work pressures) but this caught her completely off guard. In disbelief she stood, hoping somehow she would wake up and this would be some sort of sick joke. Minutes ticked silently past, the car didn’t return, she didn’t wake. Slowly it sunk in. Her life had taken a sudden dramatic turn and she couldn’t process it. Fear and confusion burned hot through her body.
She wanted to run after him and ask a million questions. He’d thrown the unbelievable information at her so callously and it sounded final. He looked so determined. Sara took a deep breath, then looked around the neighborhood, as if she had forgotten it was there, suddenly she felt vulnerable, standing alone in the yard. Were the eyes of Laguna witnessing the birth of a new scandal? Sara could almost feel the judgmental eyes peering down. A gardener up the street blew leaves from one yard to the next. She saw no one else and decided to go back inside.
Closing the door behind her, Sara made her way to the kitchen and stood in front of the folder. Her hands felt heavy and she couldn’t bring herself to open it, as if somehow leaving it closed would keep the inevitable from happening. She walked instead to the refrigerator and poured a shaky glass of orange juice. Without drinking any she set it down and returned to the ominous file. It held something awful. She knew it from the look on his face, even if he’d spoken not a word. ‘Dallas, what have you done?’ she asked herself.
She ran her fingers along the edge of the folder, avoiding the details of a script she didn’t want to play out. The curtain rose on a new episode of her life as she slowly turned the cover with a polished red fingernail. A typed letter from Dallas lay neatly at the top. She picked it up, closed the folder, and turned her back to the counter. As she read, she slowly slid down the front of the cabinet until she was sitting on the floor.

Dear Sara,
I regret that you must receive this information in such a cold way, but that’s what I’ve become, cold. We go about our lives as two strangers bumping around in a life that seems so perfect to people seeing it from the outside. It’s not perfect, Sara - far from it, and I think we both know it.
I’m divorcing you without contention. You get everything. I am starting over. I know you deserve more detail, but that’s all I can give you. Communicate with my lawyer. His contact information is enclosed.
There’s no reason to make this difficult. I’m not coming back. The house, the money, the cars - all of it is yours.
Dallas

The late evening sun shone through the window and cast a warm yellow glow on her face. Tears, which had been held back by confusion, flowed freely and glistened down her flushed cheeks. The house felt enormously empty, but it had been empty for a long time. Dusk ushered in a deep and profound loneliness, like she'd never felt before. After sitting on the kitchen floor for twenty minutes, she stood up from the cold white tiles as the sun disappeared. Fiery red clouds on the seascape reflected light from a source that had moved on. A moment of beauty, fading into a moonless night. Sara picked up the folder and went to Dallas’s patio office. Sago palms - dramatically lit - bordered the backyard. The pool glowed from a blue light as wave patterns reflected beneath the awnings.
She wanted to talk with someone. She needed to talk to someone, but the loneliness only became more pronounced as she came to the realization that she truly had no one close she could call. She sat in the glass office, looking over her beautiful backyard. Grecian urns, well - manicured hedges and the sound of the ocean crashing below - it looked perfect, but it was a thin facade. She had many friends, but no confidantes. The realization crept in like a thief.
Her mind shuffled through names and faces. Several people came to mind, but they were all social friends. Dallas cautioned against becoming intimate with anyone because it could put them in a vulnerable position. They made no effort to get to know anyone beyond current events and social chatter. Her social life was active, but it was superficial and agenda oriented. Sara began to process another disturbing thought. What would her ‘friends’ think?
It was difficult to understand why Dallas would do something so dramatic. The rumors would burst through Corner Brook like water through a reservoir dam. This was exactly the type of thing he normally went out of his way to avoid.
They worked hard to rise to this social level; Sara's magnificent Laguna home was vastly different from her humble beginnings. Born in central California to parents who were perpetual students, Sara was an only child. Her parents worked endlessly on individual Ph.D.’s with Sara underfoot. They made sure she was warm and fed, but never “babied” her. They were unconventional and treated Sara more like an adult than a child, exposing her to classic literature and the arts when she was very young. She was their only child because they didn't have time for more.
The first decade of her life was lean. They lived in tiny apartments, friends' spare rooms and anything else they could manage. The summer Sara turned nine, the family spent six months living in a dilapidated Volkswagen van. They "camped" along the central California coast. Many nights cold ocean gales buffeted the little van, but they had plenty of blankets and together they made it through. Her parents studied and worked their way through school. Eventually able to rent a small house within walking distance of Stanford University, her parents both landed jobs as professors in the English department.
Sara read incessantly and excelled in school. Her parents wanted her to follow their path and go into education. They encouraged her to go for a doctorate and were openly disappointed when she dropped out of Stanford after the spring semester of her sophomore year. She'd met a boy named Dallas and followed him to Southern California.
It was a brisk early spring morning in Palo Alto. A wet breeze brought a chill along the drizzled streets. In a quaint place called the Cool Café, Sara sat reading Crime and Punishment at a table by herself. This was a popular college hangout with backpacked students strewn about, drinking lattés, flirting and trying to study. Dallas entered and sat at the only open table, which happened to be next to Sara. He was tall, with thick wavy hair. His dark eyes seemed to light up as they glanced at one another. Sara smiled politely and went back to reading about Rodya and his guilt. She didn't know who he was, but he was handsome and carried himself with confidence. A group of girls noticed him and immediately began whispering and created a small scene.
“Hi, Dallas!” two blondes spoke at the same time. He looked at them and grinned. “Hi ladies,” he said, enjoying the recognition. Sara looked at the group of girls who were giddy and giggly, acting as if he were a movie star. The two girls came over and asked for autographs. Sara recognized a few of the girls in the group, fellow freshmen. They crowded around his small table, inches from where Sara sat.
"Great game Saturday."
"My name is Erica."
"Are you going to the rally tonight?"
The comments bounced around like ping pong balls as the girls shot questions before he had a chance to answer any of them. Sara tried to ignore the gush. She wasn’t interested in some local sports hero or whatever it was that made them fawn all over him. She turned her back and kept reading. Soon, the girls returned to their table comparing napkins.
“Sorry about that,” he said to Sara in a soft voice. She looked at him. “I don’t like it either.”
“I bet you don’t,” Sara said with a light sarcastic smile.
“Okay, you caught me, it's not so bad,” he said smiling back, Sara returned to her book. Her lack of enthusiasm intrigued him, but he picked up a copy of The Stanford Daily and began to read, as if he were through talking with her. He wasn't, and after a few minutes, with the admiring freshmen stealing glances, he leaned over partially hidden behind the paper.
“Who did it?” he asked.
“Excuse me,” she looked up; his brown eyes smiled and flirted with her. Sara found humor in his adoring fans who held their signed napkins, fuming with jealousy. Who was the girl he was talking to? She knew that very girl in the group believed they had a chance with the most eligible and desirable man on campus.
“The crime,” he said gesturing toward the title of her book.
“You’ll have to read the book for yourself," Sara said, looking up briefly then back to the pages, her shoulder length brunette hair falling and hiding the smile on her face, "I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.”
“Russian authors don’t exactly write page turners. Tolstoy didn’t keep me at the edge of my seat and I doubt Dostoyevsky will do much better. Is it true he wrote Crime and Punishment to pay off a debt?”
“I can see that I’m not going to get any reading done,” Sara said closing the book, acting playfully perturbed, but she was intrigued. She could feel the frustrated female eyes from across the room.
“Sorry, are you in an exciting part?” He put the paper down.
“No, you’re right, there are no exciting parts. Well, except for the murder scene where Raskolnikov...”
“No, don’t tell me. You’ll ruin it,” he said, cutting her off.
“I wouldn’t want to do that and yes, I think he did write it to pay off some kind of debt.”
They talked for a few more minutes; it was the least she could do for the group of girls who obviously wished they could trade places with her.
"I have a class in twenty minutes," she said, as she stood, unzipped her backpack and stuffed the book in. "It was nice chatting with you."
“I’m heading that way,” he said, “mind if I walk with you?”
“Okay, but I’m not going to ask you to carry my books or anything.”
“That’s okay, they’re too heavy for me anyway.” Sara laughed at his wit.
The girls stared without looking as they walked past.
“So, star struck girls ask you for autographs. Why is that?” she asked once they were outside.
“They think it’s a big deal that I threw the winning touchdown against UCLA and put our team in the Rose bowl last January.”
“Well, well, the one and only Dallas Mongomery! I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
“So you have heard of me?”
“I’ve heard of you, but I’m sorry I don’t follow football much,” she spoke as they strolled along a crooked path. “Are you going to play professionally?”
“No,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Don’t tell the girls back there, they’ll be heart broken.”
“Tell me about it! It’s good to talk with someone who isn’t trying to get close to me for selfish reasons,” he smiled at her. “You aren’t, are you?”
“I was until I found out you aren’t going to play professionally!” Conversation came easily as two very different worlds came together. “Mind if I ask why you aren’t going to play professionally? I imagine a Rose bowl quarterback would be sought after aggressively by the professional teams.”
“You're right but, it’s a volatile, fickle game that grinds you down. I hurt my knee playing in the Rose bowl game and my value went way down. My phone stopped ringing, everyone was speculating whether it was career ending, was I prone to injury, could I hold up physically in the NFL? Playing college ball was a dream beyond any I could imagine. I had the privilege of being the starting quarterback in a Rose bowl game.” They paused in front of her building. “That’s enough for me. I’m interested in business and something more predictable than the NFL, but the money does make it hard to walk away. I'll get my millions another way.”
Sara was impressed.
“Well, this is me,” she said, gesturing to ornate double doors, “thanks for walking me to class and good luck to you.”
“No problem, I’m afraid I did most of the talking, sorry about that.”
“I ask questions so I don’t have to talk about myself, something I learned from my father. Well, I need to go. Have a good day.” She began to ascend smooth stone steps.
“You too,” he said, “maybe we could meet in the coffee shop sometime and I can ask the questions.”
“I’d like that, but asking the questions is my thing, I'm not sure I'm ready to give it up,” she said, pulling the door open. “I’ll be there again before class on Thursday.” She disappeared into the building nonchalantly, but was interested in seeing him again. He stood in the moment thinking he would wait for her to get out of class, but realized it would look sad and pathetic. He took note of the time and bounded away looking forward to Thursday.
When Thursday came they both showed up early and walked into The Cool together. The girls didn't approach him for autographs, but they noticed he was with that girl again and took careful note. This was hot university news - who was the new girl with the quarterback? Dallas and Sara picked up where they left off. He asked the questions this time and they got to know each other. They met like this for several Thursdays before Dallas asked her on their first real date.
They enjoyed dating and getting to know each other that spring. Dallas graduated and received a generous offer from Logan Aerospace in Southern California. He moved into a small apartment close to Disneyland midsummer. He worked long hours and began work on an MBA. The long distance relationship was difficult, but they talked, wrote letters and got together on several weekends. They were falling in love and Sara found herself thinking about him all the time. She missed him and hoped that the fall semester would be a good distraction, but she couldn't keep her mind on her studies. On Christmas day, in a gazebo with a beautiful view of Laguna beach and the Pacific Ocean, Dallas asked Sara to marry him. They were married two weeks after Sara’s sophomore year ended. They promised each other that Sara would finish her degree when Dallas completed his MBA, but their lives became busy and she never found the time to go back. Dallas was driven and worked hard, but he understood the value of good relationships. Who you aligned with was a central key to success. He moved quickly through the ranks and at thirty-three became one of the youngest division managers Logan Aerospace had ever seen.
His parents had divorced when he was in grade school. His father remarried, moved away and Dallas hardly knew him. When his mother remarried, during Dallas’s junior year of high school, his new stepfather didn’t want to have anything to do with "another man's son." Dallas studied hard and received a football scholarship to Stanford. His mother and stepfather never saw him play. Not having family at the games, hurt more than he cared to admit. The underlying pain caused by the void drove him. Proving himself to an elusive ghost, looking for approval that never came, he kept pushing. Maybe the next level would hold some satisfaction.
Sara immersed herself in the social scene. Most of it she didn’t care for, but tennis became a great outlet. She played every chance she could. It kept her in great shape. It was never referred to directly, but she knew that Dallas expected her to keep up her appearance. Their lives were all about presentation, a persona of success was the first step. Dallas knew how to carry himself in a way that drew people to him. When he walked into a party with her on his arm, he wanted heads to turn. They did.

Sara had become an accomplished socialite, though the pettiness and backbiting at times were unbearable. Dallas leaving like this would be a scandal. It would circulate in whispers from jeweled ear to jeweled ear, at fundraisers and cocktail parties. It would eventually replace the tired prattle going around about John, the prominent bank president, who ran off with the cute coed who checked out paddlewheel boats at the club. Most would passively chatter on about it, simply to be included in the conversation, glad it wasn’t about them. For a few it would be sport. They would root out details, make assumptions and fill in blanks, then perpetuate exaggerations with enough truth to be believable.
Andrea was the closest thing Sara had to a friend. They would gravitate to each other at various functions and have a good laugh over the pretentious nonsense going on around them. She related to Andrea - they had more in common and were the same age, younger than most of the others. In the end, even Andrea was little more than a social acquaintance, not an intimate friend with whom she could share something so devastating and raw, at least not now.
From the time she left Stanford she had little contact with her parents. They attended the wedding, but protested in their petty way by saying almost nothing. Currently they were six months into a two year journey around the globe. Their great research sabbatical. With no itinerary, they could be anywhere. It was their great escape, the trip for which they had worked and saved, as if they had hung a great ‘do not disturb’ sign on their lives. They had always focused on their own pursuits. She had no one to call, no one to pour her heart out to, no one to be vulnerable with. Sara was alone.
The folder sat closed in front of her on Dallas’s neatly organized desk. She opened it and began to read. The legalese was daunting, but Dallas had left her everything. She couldn't understand; baffled and numb, she tried to make sense of it. He had worked hard, he was diligent and proud of his accomplishments. How could he walk away?
Dallas said he had grown cold - what did it really mean? Obviously something or someone had become his new passion. He was the kind of man who was relentless in the pursuit of what he wanted. Something had stolen her husband and Sara was determined to find the answer. Since they'd met, she knew him to be predictable and calculating; it was impossible to believe he would simply walk away without a plan. There had to be something more. She began to go through his desk. For the past year most of his meager time at home was spent in his home office. Meticulous files were neatly organized in alphabetical folders. One by one she pulled them out and familiarized herself with a side of him she had not known. Perhaps that was part of the problem. She hadn’t made an effort to learn what he did for a living. She knew he was a senior manager at Logan Aerospace. A few hundred employees reported to him, but that was the extent of her knowledge. Other than questions like, ‘How was your day?’ she made no effort to learn more. She was proud of him, she had told him many times. He had provided a good life for her. Why hadn’t she shown more interest in his work, the place he spent most of his time, his very occupation? She was a good wife, but she could have been better. Why hadn’t she? They were so whimsical and flirtatious at the beginning of their marriage. Little by little, responsibility and obligation stole their energy, consumed their time and took away the very things that made them want to take this journey together. She sifted through the papers of a stranger. Her handsome quarterback, her prince, her rock was a thin mist of illusion. She shared in the erosion of course, but felt it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed. They could fix this. They could get the love back. It couldn't be whisked away in a slick black limo and stack of papers. It was impossible to process. It made no sense.
After an hour of thumbing through his files she made a discovery. In a folder marked QC Specs, she found something that obviously didn’t fit with the business documents. Hidden between the pages of a thick stapled report was a small delicate note card. It had a floral motif, distinctly feminine. It was personal, handwritten with elegant swooping letters. There was a short message:

Dallas!
Superb job!
You’re the greatest!
XXO
Cyn!

She slowly brought it to her face and smelled it. As she breathed deeply the faded scent of expensive perfume faintly drifted into her senses and lit a fire of determination in Sara’s heart. She imagined Dallas enjoying the scent. He was doing all of this for a woman with a delicate hand and exquisite taste in perfume. A woman who drew stupid little hearts and thought he was "the greatest." She wondered if he’d bought the perfume for her. He'd never given her any; in fact, Dallas wasn't the most sensitive gift giver. She looked down the hall at the big screen television he gave "her" a few Christmases before.
Her name was Cyn and Sara was beginning to hate her. She wanted to tear apart the note and throw it in the trash, but instead shoved it in the folder with the divorce papers. Her unbridled imagination galloped recklessly, flashing to illicit encounters, secret vacations, and long lunches at beachside cafes. It began to make sense. Why hadn’t Sara been more attentive? Why hadn’t she surprised him at lunch for a romantic tryst? Women always noticed him, but she was used to it. For the past year he was on the road much of the time; maybe he had an entire family somewhere, anything was possible. She fought against her lifelong habit of blaming herself. At the moment she was losing.
The loneliness and guilt had weight. Sadness overwhelmed her and she cried, deep convulsing sobs that took her breath away. She tried to push the intrusive images away, but they attacked her like Huns swarming the Great Wall. Was he with her now, happy, laughing, running hand in hand, as if they were models in a corny phone commercial, dressed in white, the ocean delicately splashing at their ankles?
Exhausted, the deep pain eventually melded with an anger Sara had never experienced. Midnight approached, the surf crashed on the California shore far below, the methodical sound didn’t carry its usual tranquility. There had to be more clues, answers to the myriad questions. She needed information that would give her truth and confirm or deny the devastating images.
Glancing in the shredder bin she discovered the remains of a demolished computer CD. In the confusion and despair she had not looked through his computer. She jiggled the mouse and the sleeping machine awoke. The desktop picture was of the two of them posing in front of an old building in Ireland during their last vacation a year and a half earlier. She had put it there for him and the only reason it remained was because he didn’t know how to change it. She defiantly changed it to a stock picture of the Grand Canyon.
Scrawling through files she found little that was personal. Business memos he’d written, boring emails about meeting times and project updates. She grew tired of looking through the monotonous drudgery that was his professional life. She looked in the recycle bin, it was empty, but something occurred to her. Sara knew that Dallas thought if you put something in the recycle bin and clicked empty, the data was gone. He was a division head, but knew little of how a computer worked and the ample IT department enabled his incompetence. He had more important things to do than fiddle with desktops and recycle bins, a simple phone call took care of it. At home he turned to Sara to deal with anything beyond the very basic.
Sara had taken several computer classes and was the designated creator of flyers and websites for many of her clubs. She was very savvy and decided to run a program to look for files that had been slated for deletion. Within minutes a list of “deleted” files were ordered into a neat column. She began with the most recent because they had the least chance of not being damaged.
Destroy this CD once you’ve read it, the document began. Sara glanced at the shredder. He got that part right, she thought to herself. He hadn’t simply read the file from the cd, however; he had copied it to his hard drive then thrown it in the trash.
Even though parts of the message were missing Sara found detailed directions from the airport in Boise, Idaho to a Featherstone Lake. Take the small boat named Isabelle due west from the dock. Look for a large boulder resting at the end of the point; just north of it is a small dock, the cabin is... The sentence was incomplete. This was interesting. There was another document with nothing more than seven numbers, perhaps a combination. Sara pasted what she retrieved into a new document and printed it.


In the dark Idaho night Doug Collins wound along a narrow mountain road. The plan was in motion. He nervously tapped the pistol in his jacket pocket. It was the first time he had ever carried a gun and he couldn’t stop touching it.
He felt like he'd been driving forever, almost turning around several times thinking he must have missed a turn. He pulled into a turnout and checked the directions Dallas had given him earlier in the day. Checking his mileage against the directions, he decided to keep going. He felt some relief when he finally turned into The Dry Creek motel. Doug flipped off the headlights of his rental car and slowed to a crawl, trying to keep the noise down. Gravel crunched loudly, he moved his head from side to side scanning for anyone that might be watching. Blue neon reflected the distorted word "otel" across his hood as he stopped next to the only car parked in front of the small motel.
The motel was the only building he’d seen in the past forty-five minutes. It took forever, but there was no mistaking this was the place. Nestled among tall pine trees, Doug had to fight a haunting urge to turn and drive away. The stark remoteness made him feel uneasy. Beyond the island of light, a velvet night stretched for miles and miles.
He turned off the engine and waited a minute, paranoid. Branches swayed in the neon glow, animating shadows across his bug splattered windshield. It’s not too late, he told himself. Leave now. But he knew he couldn’t. He needed the money, Dallas and Cyndi were counting on him. Doug summoned the courage to continue. He got out of the car and cautiously headed toward a faded blue door. A tarnished brass "C" hung upside down, barely holding on by a worn brass brad.
Glancing side to side he stepped onto the buckled sidewalk. Tapping lightly on the door he checked the window of the next room to see if there was any movement. He saw none, but still imagined someone peering at him from the blackness. The dangling C moved as the door opened slightly. Long blonde hair fell across sultry blue eyes. The door swung quickly open, she stepped aside. Her slippered feet gave way to shapely tanned legs, khaki shorts and an untucked, loose fitting light pink button down.
"Come in," she whispered. "Hurry."
He stepped in.
“You’re late,” she said, as she pushed the door closed behind him and slid the flimsy gold safety chain into its track. The stale punch of ancient cigarette smoke filled his nostrils as he sat in a worn chair. She gracefully placed herself on the corner of the bed across from him.
“Sorry,” Doug spoke softly. “I couldn’t tell if I was being followed, so I doubled back several times. I have to admit, because I wasn’t familiar with the Boise area, I got lost.” He paused, then added “several times.”
He realized almost for the first time, that he was alone in a motel room with Cyndi. He found it awkward to look directly into her eyes for any length of time. His eyes fell away as if they knew a long look would blush his cheeks and he would giggle like a little girl. She definitely had a power over him. He realized the attention this stunning woman showed him was a major reason he had allowed himself to get caught up in this whole shady thing. It was invigorating to be around Cyn.
She smiled, accustomed to turning grown men into nervous school boys. She knew what she was doing, this was her element and she was a master manipulator.
“Well, if they started following you, they probably stopped because you seemed to be going nowhere,” she said, and then added, “I hope you’re ready for this.” She placed her hand lightly on his knee, leaning in, “It’s going to change your life. There’s no reason to be nervous, Dallas has taken care of everything. We just need your help for this one little part.”
“Cyndi,” he said, boldly holding the gaze, pleased that he didn’t blush and giggle, “you can count on me.”
“I knew I could,” she stood and touched his shoulder before she walked around the bed. “The rest is simple.” Cyndi produced an attaché from behind the faded paisley nineteen sixties bedspread. “Wait here until 4:30 tomorrow afternoon, the room is paid for. Do not leave. Follow the instructions you received from Dallas when you get to the lake. At that point you are playing their game. Someone will be watching you. They have gone through great trouble to make this switch look innocent. No one will be at the cabin, but they will be watching with a remote camera. If you don't do it exactly as they say, well...” She paused and moved closer, her hand resting on his, her perfume gently wafting in his face. “Doug, these are bad people, we have something they want and they are willing to do anything to get it. As long as we cooperate, the money will be ours; don’t make any mistakes or get any heroic ideas.” She squeezed his hand before letting go. “The documents are in here.” She tapped the attaché as she stepped back.
Doug was frightened, but he tried not to show it. Cyndi sensed the fear and was happy about it. She had him exactly where she wanted him.
“Relax,” she said, massaging his shoulders, “in two days you’ll be a rich man.” He melted at her touch, but tried not to show it. He dropped his head and enjoyed her expert hands.
“Those debts will be gone, Doug. The collectors will be gone. You’ll be free.” Her voice was soothing. She stopped rubbing, kicked her slippers into an open suitcase and slipped on a pair of smart heels.
“I owe Dallas and you so much for what you’ve done for me. Thank you for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”
“Doug, you’re a sweetheart. We trust you,” she smiled and zipped her suitcase closed. “I’m leaving now. The less we’re together, the better. Hold tight here until it’s time to go to Featherstone. There’s food in the red cooler, the blue one has ice, sodas and water. They have satellite television. You should be very comfortable until it's time to go.”
He liked the way she called him sweetheart. “I’m ready for this Cyndi. I won’t let you down,” he repeated himself.
“When you return from the cabin with the new cases, they will be locked and contain a GPS. When we meet back here, I’ll deactivate it and you’ll have your share of the money, no more questions asked. You’ll be on your own at that point. I’ll see you back here the day after tomorrow, early morning.” Cyndi lied about the GPS, it would help keep him honest. She turned her head with a flip that spun blonde hair around her shoulders, the way he had admired hundreds of times around the offices of Logan Aerospace.
“Good bye, Cyndi.”
“Good bye, Doug, stay alert,” she said and quickly left the room, her presence lingering. Doug savored it for a minute, then pulled out a bag of Ruffles and flipped on the television, a faint smile on his face. His life was about to change, forever.
He had no idea he would never see Cyndi again.



Thank you for taking time to help.

Have an outrageous day and let me know if you have any questions.

Jerry

Falling Trees

There is a phrase that causes some to contemplate and act as if it is a deep intellectual quandary. The phrase is, "If a tree fell in the woods and no one was there to hear it, would it make a sound?" Because trees are only known to exist in the earth's atmosphere, and sound is created by movement in that atmosphere, it is the moving tree that causes the sound and not the presence of a device to accept the vibration caused by the movement. This obnoxious little phrase suggests that sound is an idea relative to human perception. If a tree falls in the woods and no one's there to see it, did it fall? If a tree wafts a gentle scent and no one was there to smell it? If a tree had a rough exterior and no one was there to feel it? Such foolishness - I wonder, if I write this and no one reads it, did I write it at all?

^Just something I was thinking about.^

I had a great Christmas break, full of family and fun. I hope you did too. I received the manuscript for Cyn from Lori (who graciously edited it) and hope to have it ready for submission by the end of the month.