Andersons Night (story start)

So I'm taking a writing workshop, Thursday evenings. It's a great group, and it's a kick in the pants to produce. A kick I don't seem to be able to give myself, by myself.

So, I will be posting some of the fruits of that labor here in the next couple of weeks, as another kick in the pants. I mean, you know you're losing something when your son is more prolific in his writing than you. And he's not even out of middle school yet. Sheesh.

************

The exercise: Find a book that you like the title of. Take the first sentence from that book, and start a new story.

The book: Remember Me? By Sophie Kinsella

The first sentence: Of all the crap, crap, crappy nights I've ever had in the whole of my crap life.

Special note: I wrote the first sentence as the start of the exercise, but in the second edit of the text to come, I changed it. I loved the sentence, but it has a very specific voice that, once I got into telling the story, no longer fit the narrator. So I changed it. So there.

This is now the first part of what's developing to be a nice little crime short story.

************

Anderson’s Night.


It was a bad night.

And this morning isn’t getting any better. First, the car isn’t where it was supposed to be. I say “supposed to be,” Because I wasn’t the one who parked it. When I park a car, I make a point of getting out and spinning a quick, orienting 360, to tell where I am. I make note of landmarks, areas of the terrain, location in relation to prominent, memorable landmarks, and all that. But this time Ellen was the one driving the car, with me unconscious and sprawled in the back seat, across Reggie’s lap. It was Reggie who pulled me out, on arm under each of my pits, he swore. But by the throbbing in my head and the ache and bruises across my upper body, I couldn’t swear he didn’t pull me of the car and drag me inside, up three flights, by my ankles, my head thudding against each step and hm complaining all the way about how much weight I’d gained since he first met me three years ago. That would be Reggie.

But then, Ellen was there too, and I’m pretty sure…reasonably sure…almost positive she wouldn’t have let him do that. She would’ve lent him a hand, he at the top of my body and her at my feet. She's strong, I give her that. And Reggie, standing at every bit of her five foot five, was never much stronger for being a man. But he was never much of a man, in my opinion. But that's being snarky. And I hate snarky. That's more Reggie's territory.

The trek up to Ellen’s flat would’ve been difficult even just for the two of them. Those stairs are narrow, and the elevator non-existent. I can see her pulling her hair back with that scrunchy things she always keeps around her wrist or in her purse, or on the stick shift of my car. She's careful. She'd have carefully kept her long blonde locks free from the entangling velcro straps on my old sneakers. I may've gotten some footprints across her always-pristine leather jacket, given her significant breasts, and the awkward amble up those stairs. But no wear and tear would've been unloaded on me. And she'd've made Reggie be careful, too. She’s the responsible one. The one who said she loved me. Yeah, she would’ve made sure he was careful with me. Even though, at the time, she thought I was dead.

But then, how responsible was she really? I mean, she was the one who parked the car, and who should’ve known where I always park it when I’m at her place. Always, always, ALWAYS across the street, near the museum, where they let you park for free until about nine, when the meters, and the meter maids, kick in. But I’ve walked up and down this street four times, and I only have an hour until nine, and the damned car is just not here. And, of course, she’s not here to ask anymore, is she? She took off once the shooting started this morning. Not that I can blame her, for that. I never meant to get her into this mess in the first place.

But the car, that I blame her for.

Maybe I should go back and ask Reggie what he remembers. I’m pretty sure he’d still be able to talk. He’d said quite a bit already, before I left him. But I bet he’s got more in him. If he’s still breathing.

Continued.