Stalking the Average Man HTML version
problem I had with my screenplay. Tom dedicated brief seconds of thought to this before saying I
should upgrade one of my helicopters. In two sentences, he explained how I could fuse my
unintended implication to a slightly reworked clima x, then offering me a business card on which he
had scribbled a phone number, he said, -A friend needs help converting her book into a screenplay
format. She‘s a looker, | he said seriously.
-Maybe later, | I said, to not seem unappreciative; I had a lot to do.
-That‘s perfect, | he replied, sliding the card between my fingers. -Bonnie is expecting to hear
from you tonight… shit! | he exclaimed, looking at his watch as if it had bit him.
Dropping cash on the table, he left to meet his girlfriend.
Later at home, fueled by unnecessary nightcaps and thoughts of lacy undergarments, I made
the call that would lead to the doom of everything I believed about free spirits, the winds of
change, and how much baggage I really had brought with me.
Early the next morning, I inserted a floppy disk into my Atari 64 computer and called up files
from my book in progress: Bonnie had hinted that we should exchange samples of our work, to see
if we were creatively compatib le, and as a courtesy act of trust by revealing ideas we had not
copyrighted. Confidently pleased over the clever ease and causal humor we had shared in our first
conversation, I read the best of my potential offerings without feeling I had to commit to showing
it to her.
Axelson— You Taught Me Well
Chapter 03 –The Good Guys: Part 1
-Axe! | LeBlanc barked, wobbling into my eye line through the after work crowd at Julie‘s
Mansion; Illona reached sideways from her overstuffed chair and casually grabbed his belt to
-Couple loose cartons and lots of pins, | he said, expelling a lung and a half of steely grey
smoke into an unsuspecting room. -No ball caps, | he added, waving a fickle path with his index
finger. -The fuckers‘ll steal‘em on the way in. | Abruptly, he turned to leave.
Illona released him into a lurch that Rob twisted into the pivot of an afterthought by swinging
his arm up to tap the side of his substantial nose. Rolling her eyes, Illona leaned forward to steady
him, as he sagely said, -Rio, | meaning bring toilet paper, as if I would forget projectile shitting in
one of the most beautiful places on earth.
-No sweat. I‘ve still got some Canadian flag collar pins, as well, | I said, re-establishing eye
contact with the leggy woman who had been checking me out: early thirties, subtly painted, no ring
on the killjoy finger. Even if...
-You‘re gonna know sweat, | Rob muttered toward the carpet, apparently willing his feet to
move through the tangle of boots and purses that had ensnared him: pausing for an intellectually
tedious drag on his cigarette, a solution made its way through the internal haze. He wiggled his
toes, located his own shoes, then leaned toward the exit; Illona released him into God‘s hands a day
sooner than was scheduled on The Nationals‘ assignment board.
-The flight to Rochester leaves at ten, | I said to his back. -Meet you at customs at eight. |
-Anything else he should know? | Percy, a pretentious technician who occasionally worked
with him, said dryly: Rob had worked the bang-bang in Vietnam and half-a-dozen other countries