WRITING IS HARD WORK

         It’s Friday Eve, as we used to call it long ago, the day before the weekend. A lot of good that does me; writers never take a day off. Wasn’t it Graham Greene’s Maurice who wrote his 500 words each and every day? So it is with me, so much to do and so little time.

Note for editing: how many ‘so’s’ did I use there? Is that good or bad?

         There is the problem of massaging The Smothers Brothers into that essay; and I should work on that detective story that threatens to become a novella, but first things first! Can my detectives find out who shot the wolf in 1000 words or less, and keep the story suitable for children? Why I waited this long to learn that there is money pleasing the little bastards is beyond me.

Memo to Self: ‘Bastards is a no-no if I want to keep the rating at “G”. The radio station fired Uncle WIP for saying the word. Is that really true? Must remind myself to tell Pam the story and see if it also happened up in New York. I wonder if it was the urban legend of the early 50’s?

Wow, that feels a lot better. I’ll shower in a minute. Oh brother, I see the light blinking on the Task Bar from here at the bathroom door. Well it can’t be Jackie, she’s never up before noon. Must be Pam. Must be slow at her office.

Memo to Self if I publish these thoughts: ‘Bathroom’ may be too scatological to reach kids and keep piece rated “G”. Someone will insist on PG. Maybe if I imply I got out of the shower and saw the computer. God knows we writers aren’t allowed to pee or shit, nor can our characters.

-CLICK-

"David, This is funny. ‘Police in Radnor, Pennsylvania, interrogated a suspect by placing a metal colander on his head and connecting it with wires to a photocopy machine. The message "He's lying" was placed in the copier, and police pressed the copy button each time they thought the suspect wasn't telling the truth. Believing the lie detector was working, the suspect confessed.”

“HI THERE, THAT IS FUNNY BUT IT’S OLD.”

“Tell me later, can’t chat now, phone call coming in. Bye.”

         It seemed to me that someone emailed her story a couple of years ago in one of those year-end stupidity roundups, but that gives me another idea. Now I wonder if I can work a different Radnor story into something. Pam doesn’t know that Radnor is the home of the upper crust of the Main Line. Do I have to add that fact to make sense of mine? How much explanation do I have to give the trolley? Will people know that I’m talking about something that moves at 75 miles an hour? Can I get the guy’s name? Is it important? What form should it take? Decisions, decisions!

         The man was standing at the Gulph Mills station at nine in the morning, waiting for the next trolley to Norristown. Next to him was a bulky large trash bag. He did not know that riders had to press a button when they stepped on the platform to signal the car to stop. The trolley came around the bend, saw him too late and went through the station, but hit its brakes and came to a stop up the tracks away.

Stop right here. Can’t be Gulph Mills, that is a major stop, the button isn't required. Some accuracy addict would undoubtedly complain. Make it Conshohocken State Road. Is there such a stop? I think so.

Major decision: Do I now go for black comedy or let what happened speak for itself?

         The trolley sounded its horn and began to back into the station. The operator was going to open the back door and let the waiting patron embark. The man grabbed his trash bag, tried to heave it over his shoulder and in doing so, threw himself off balance. He stumbled, dropping the bag on the platform, and fell under the wheels of the trolley. He was killed instantly. It was not until police investigating the accident saw and opened the trash bag later that day that they found many items stolen that morning from a large house in the vicinity.

         I remember my comedic thoughts at the time. The transit authority, SEPTA by name, had been running one of its futile ad campaigns to get drivers out of their cars, suggesting they take SEPTA to work. The idea of a poster on the subway, “Another satisfied SEPTA rider,” flashed through my mind. The squib in the next day’s paper did not say if the second-story man was married and I never did find an obit to tell me, but I suspect someone from the family would have told of Burgling Bob’s satisfaction with the transit service. The paper ran only two short paragraphs because they were in the habit of supporting the transportation authority and omitting anything that might cast it in a negative light.

Another memo: This content is pretty heavy and dark. I am sure that even without a curse word or two I will have to score it PG-13. Maybe I should dramatize it and put the reader in the burglar’s shoes. If it’s going to get a PG-13, why not head for an “R” and have him give a good old Philadelphia, “Wadduhfuck!” as he stumbles over the platform.

That's pretty good! Then I'll point out that no one came to claim the burglar’s loot. Do I imply why not? Makes the story even blacker. Maybe I bring up that other great story that happened a few days later about the guy being shot and killed in his basement in Darby Township.

What a punch line! The victim’s adult son was at the airport at the time of the murder, waiting for a flight to the Cayman Islands? Whoa boy! Can anyone say money laundering? Wasn’t it a gambling debt that brought about the murder? And of course the cops knew nothing of this activity going on in that respectable middle class neighborhood.

Starts to make a neat frame for a puzzle. Maybe the victims of the trolley burglar were partners of the Darby Township loan shark. Can I fit the trolley driver for a mob operative, rubbing out the yegg who broke into the wrong house? Do I have the loan shark’s departing son scream, “Ah, shit Dad, of all fucking days to pick to get blown away, you choose this one?” And what about SEPTA? How about a hungry District Attorney trying to hit its suits with a RICO rap?

Maybe I can work Freddy, the hairdresser who lived next door to me, into it. He was burgled. Hell, I saw Irish John, the druggie who lived on the other side of him, run in the back door of his own house just before Fred came home, found his door open and called the police. I was there in Fred’s living room when Freddy, with a straight face, said “looks like they got about forty dollars in cash and that's all.” Right! Hey Fred, even then I knew that old saw so beloved by we tax consultants: ‘Cash is the best tax shelter.’

         Well readers, I have a lot to think about. I could clean the story up, get rid of the damns, shits and fucks, make it a tale of greed punished, and put it in the 1000 word mystery contest. Then again, if it is an “R”, I could punch it up even more, maybe putting an explicit description of the trolley’s path over the burglar’s head. Then, too, dialogue is my forte. Why not a good argument between the loan shark and his customer? Sprinkle it with lots of curse words in dialect. Let me think!

         Know what? I'll take out the blood and use ‘fug’ or ‘frig’ and maybe I can slide it in as a PG-13.

Impossible, Dickhead! The bad guys don’t get their due. No right-minded thinking blue nose will accept that. Hmmmm, I’ve got it! I'll set the last scene in the Radnor Police Station. Freddy and the loan shark’s son will be sitting there, colanders on their heads. The copier is working overtime. They are confessing. Oh, this is GREAT STUFF! Wait until I tell Pam! I could kiss her for being so brilliant.

Valatie June 15, 2002