"The Nice Writer Lady"

 


"Once you use those quotation marks, it's not you the writer talking, it's you the writer listening."—Albert Ríos

  

“Okay, guys.” I’ve gathered my characters together in a corner of my mind resembling the dining room of Nicola’s big old inn. They’re pretending to listen to me. “The verdict’s in. Ya’ll swear too much.”

“Y’all,” Bobby corrects me. He’s a Tar Heel, after all; he knows. 

“You always fu.... misplace that apostrophe, darlin’,”  That was purposeful. He’s grinning at me, blue eyes laughing behind his Lennons.  At least he’s listening.

Rush and Delilah are at the piano, working on arrangement to “Everybody Hurts.” It’s gorgeous. And furthermore, it’s nice to see them getting along so well.I almost hate to interrupt them, but our meetings have become infrequent since publication; these are exceedingly independent individuals, and by now – seventeen chapters into the sequel - they are running their own show.

“Attention please.” I clear my throat in a futile bid for the spotlight. “About the swearing. You guys drop the F bomb way too often. You take the Lord’s name. Some of my readers are upset.”

“Then they ought to jump into my shoes for a day.” Bobby cracks a Budweiser and takes a long draught while I refrain from comment. “I spent four hours in a dumpster last night waiting for a bust that never happened. Came home stinking like moldy tacos and kitty litter. Sometimes ‘gee whiz’ doesn’t cut it, see?”

“Ha.” Sophie’s smile dimples her narrow cheeks. “Try tending bar if you want to test your tolerance levels, big guy.”

“No, the writer lady is right about this.” Help from an unexpected quarter; Delilah speaks to the piano keys.  “You’ve got kids in this house.”

“Give it up.” Rush elbows her without missing a note. “You’re worse than the rest of us.”

Delilah sacrifices harmony for retaliation, punches her father on the arm. “Angelo? Remember him?”

“He’s in bed. And the nice writer lady is only worried about her Amazon rank, kiddo.”

Not fair. I slink from the room, closing the door on their argument and leaning against it to get my breath.

We’ll take this up another time. In the meanwhile, gentle reader, try not to judge.

 Sugar Man's Daughter

911 Next Generation

I gave my blog over to a couple of my characters today to better address the issue of 911 Next Generation. This is Delilah’s first “Cop’s Kids” blog, and Bobby is her guest of honor. Let her know how you think she’s doing!

                                                                     Bobby Blogs

          

  I’m Delilah’s first victim. She’s managing a blog called “Cop’s Kid” and I’m her opening guest. “What the hell is a blog?” I say. “Sounds like something you slop down your front at the truck stop.”

            “It’s just little diary entries about your life.”  She doesn’t look up from her keyboard; her fingers are doing a crazed hunt and peck pattern.

            “Nobody wants to know about that. Why don’t you talk about something important?”

            “Such as?”

            “911. You can’t text it.”

            The fingers flutter and pause. “Of course you can. And besides, lame-o.”

            Delilah is fifteen. That’s the problem.

            “Your local dispatch center isn’t set up to receive texts. Or pictures. Or blogs.” I tap her head with my knuckles.

            “Shut up!” She swats at me. “What happens if I send one?”

            “Poof, it’s gone. How the hell do I know? But they don’t get it, okay?”

            “Seems like this should be national news so we all quit making mistakes.”

            “You don’t know the half of it, baby.” She’s got a picture of me up on her screen, looking tough behind my Ray Bans. Ha. “Your generation screws up the call all the time.”

            “Because we feel entitled and we have too much. Blah-blah, what else is new?”

            “You call for help on your little cell phones and fail to give an address or leave a call back number.”

            “Aren’t you supposed to figure all that out?”

            Delilah is an honors student. Scary, ain’t it?  

            “The best the dispatcher can do is to triangulate to the nearest tower. Which in your case is four miles away just outside Wapsi.”

            “Seems inadequate.”

            “Not. Just give them your address.”

            “My address is like a million digits long, thanks to you people.”

            Wow. Really? And this from a cop’s daughter.

            “It’s actually simple,” I tell her. “The roads are set up and numbered in a grid pattern, starting with 00 on the south and on the east and working up from there.”

            She’s stopped typing and her face is crinkled in consternation.

            “Or you can just read the number on the blue sign in your yard.”

            “Bite me,” she says. The fingers are tripping again; she’s brought a county 911 map up already. “All right, I see what you’re saying. But if I use my GPS I don’t need to know any of this.”

            “Until it fails.”

            “It doesn’t.”

            I give up. “What did you want to talk about?” I say.
            “Nothing, I’ve got enough now.”

            Trouble with girls that age? You can never tell if they’re pissed or just preoccupied.

No Big Hero: A Lighthearted EMS Parody

Happy EMS Week!

Like every EMT/firefighter you’ve ever met, I am pretty much obsessed with my profession; I have the requisite bumper stickers and tee shirts, even a collectible “Roy and Johnny” toy fire helmet. Birthdays involve extrication gloves, stethoscopes, EMS pants, and my yahoo page is littered with updates from every department within a seventy mile radius.

            In fact, HERE is the article that hit my inbox the other day and became the inspiration for this blog. 

You don’t have to read the whole thing, lol! Not that it isn't well written – truly, it is. And God knows, I can actually relate to most of it, as can almost any emergency worker. But it is, perhaps, a tad melodramatic, no? Maybe somewhat officious? All of which lead my partner and I, regrettably, to play with it. I share with you now the unfortunate results:

• Until you have spent eight hours on scene with your pants falling down inside your bunker gear because you forgot to put a belt on when you left the house – Don’t judge us.

• Until you have hit the patient’s house at a dead run only to slip in vomit and slide across the room like Babe Ruth stealing home (halting at the feet of your “non breathing” patient, who remarks. “Oh my.”)  – Don’t judge us.

• Until you forget to set the brake on the tanker and don’t realize it until said vehicle is sliding down the boat ramp into the lake – Don’t judge us. 

• Until you've answered a call with shampoo still in your hair – Don’t judge us

• Until you have answered a call for a non responsive medical alarm, torn down the front door and tromped mud across a stranger’s living room, only to hear the “patient” screaming in terror from their shower “Who iiiiiissss it??” – Don’t judge us. 

• Until you've gotten thoroughly lost, after dark, in your ambulance en route to a “trouble breathing” and been subjected to dispatch instructions that involve turning “right at the big Christmas tree and left again after the duck blind” – Don’t judge us.

Too often, our job actually is dramatic – at least when it isn't mind-numbingly boring. We have learned to go from zero to one hundred on the adrenaline scale in five seconds flat. Thankfully, we've also learned to laugh at ourselves, and we really don’t subscribe to the “hero” nonsense at all. Very simply, we love what we do – more than that, it’s kind of hard to get that hero-swagger right when your pants are falling down beneath your bunker gear.          

Unsuccessful Pondering on How to Turn Off Your Brain and Sleep

Who cares about dreaming? I just want to sleep! But my failure seems in direct proportion to the energy that I pour into the task.

That’s right, lol – I said “task.”

I begin each night with an hour of “The Golden Girls”. Silly, I know, but I love these ladies, and they never do anything gruesome that will follow me into dreamland. We can’t say that for “Cold Case”, right? Learned that the hard way.

By midnight , the girls have had the last laugh, and it’s down to business, television off, alarm set, fan on high. If I get serious about this, I can catch four hours before wake-up time. 

Two pillows, three blankets, socks – I am comfortable on my right side, yes. Good. Alas, the mind is not comfortable, and so it begins . . . What was the balance in my checking account this morning? I gave Johnny the debit card and told him he could get gas, did I bounce? Aaargh, please no.

My little nocturnal voice demands an accounting. How I can be working sixty hours a week and worrying about a bounce? I don’t know, pestiferous one, go to sleep.

But my shoulder hurts, turn over.

No, you’re fine.

Turn over!

All right, it’s nice here on my back, even though if I drop off, I’ll snore and wake myself up.

Only twenty-eight carbs today, that’s not bad. I should be losing weight, wonder why I’m not. I’ll be the only woman in history to do the Atkins for three months and not lose an ounce. Sue the assholes.

Hush up, go to sleep.

Maybe if I count. Deep breaths, count of three. But that’s more a hypnotic state than actually sleep, and that’s kind of weird, isn’t it?

What was that! Is there a wild animal in the room? Oh wow, that was me snoring.

Turn over. I can’t believe I was asleep and didn’t know it.

Only one o’clock ? Okay, three hours, then. I can do this. Except my feet are hot. Take the socks off, who wears socks to bed?

But I’m tiiiiiiireeed!

Take them off!

Fine, but now I’m going to lay on my stomach and I don’t need two pillows for that. Throw one on the floor and shut up, go to sleep.

 THE ELECTRIC BILL! What? I paid that, didn’t I? No, that’s right, the laptop shut off in the middle of that, and then we got a call, and I never got back to it.

The call was a nightmare. Why do the biggest people always call 911 from the upstairs bedroom? I hate it that we couldn’t get the cot straps around him, maybe we should get a bariatric cot. Right, when pigs fly.

Where on earth did that phrase come from?

Well, pigs do race. Northern Ireland hosts pig races every year. How do I know that?

I used to drink a lot on Saint Patrick’s Day, but not anymore. Really, not ever, because it hurts my esophagus. Should maybe get that checked.

When I get insurance. Or Obamacare. I didn’t like Barack until the Osama victory, and then I loved him for the look of quiet triumph on his face.

He looks like a camel. Shit, is that racist? No, it’s just creative license.

Well, that’s all right then.

I don’t mind at all that my sweetie snores. It seems kind of sweet. But I do hate the long pauses in between.

Is he still alive? Hush up, don’t listen to it.

Despise laying on my stomach, hurts my back.

Shut up!!

Just saying.

Writing a blog is harder than I thought it would be. Light and chatty, not quite my style. The pen name is kind of fun, though.

Hell, kind of goofy.

You, little voice, are kind of goofy. Just sayin’.

Oh wow, is that the alarm?  I was asleep!! What was that, maybe two hours, off and on? Pfft! I’m good to go.

Any suggestions on how to turn off your brain and sleep?  I'm drawing a blank, but while you're here,  let me give you a section from the novel I am currently working on.  If I titled chapters, I would call this one “Delilah’s Rescue”........