Sunday, April 30, 2006
How quirky are you?
| Your Quirk Factor: 75% |
 You're so quirky, it's hard for you to tell the difference between quirky and normal. No doubt about it, there's little about you that's "normal" or "average." |
Hrmph. Seems a bit off. I'm waaaay quirkier than that.
H/T Ahistoricality, who is a measly 59%. Haw-haw!
Monday, November 01, 2004
first chapter
It was a dark and stormy night.
Why yes, I do in fact realize that that is a cliché. Pretty much the ultimate cliché. In the interest of verisimilitude, however, I feel that I must tell you that it really was a dark and stormy night.
There.
Anyway. That night- which we have established previously as being both stormy and dark- there was a call on my cell. It came at about 3:30 or 4:00. I keep my cell on, plugged in to the charger, and no less than three feet from my head. Within arm's reach, in other words. In case it rings in the middle of the night. As it did this lightless and torrid evening. BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!
I groan piteously, in case that would make it stop. It didn't work. I reach into the darkness and find the answer button on the second try.
"Lo?" says I.
It's a customer. Locked out of her apartment. Keys lost. Very rainy. Please come? Twenty minutes, I promise, knowing there was little chance it would be less than thirty. I curse a bit, pull on jeans from the floor, find a shirt that isn't to smelly, pull on my boots, grab my jacket and hat and cigarettes and lighter.
I get into my truck, turn on the engine, crank the radio to “deafening”. The rain is coming down in buckets. Rain splats against the windshield vengefully until I turn on the wipers. I roar into the Brooklyn night, a cranky and tired knight on a battered pickup horse. I glance at my PDA for the customer’s address and nearly sideswipe a dented and rusty Honda. The driver honks his horn, causing me to glance up. I haul the wheel to the left just in time. He honks and flips me the bird. Jamming a cigarette into my mouth, I light it with shaky fingers.
The customer is a woman in her early twenties who is huddled under a tree for the meager protection it affords against the rain. I tap the horn once, and she looks up, startled, until she sees the word ‘Locksmith’ painted on the driver’s side door. She starts yelling her predicament at me as I dismount.
“I lost my keys” she says. I take a folding umbrella from the door pocket and hand it to her. “No problem,” I say, knowing that I radiate professionalism, “I’m here to help”. A bit hokey, that line, but it always reassures people. When you have occasion to call a locksmith at 3:30 AM, you need some reassurance by the time he or she arrives, and I know how to play the roll. “How much is it going to cost?” she wants to know. I take my flashlight from its pouch on my belt and shine it at the lock. Single sided deadbolt, no big deal. Also not much protection from any budding villain wanting to break in. Not, however, my problem. I pull my clipboard from the truck. “No problemo” says I, “but first things first. Are you the owner of this home or business?”
She stares blankly at me for a second. “No,” she says, “I rent”. Mmm, hmm. I dutifully jot this down on my form.
“ID and proof of residence?”
She fishes in her purse for a long while and eventually surfaces with her driver’s license, which she hands to me. I make a note of all her particulars. Name, Sarah Rosen. DOB, 1-8-81. Sex F. Eyes BR. Ht 5-3. ID 598 076 22. I notice her signature. She makes a smiley face in the O. The address matches the one on her license. What the hell. I’m really supposed to ask for a few proofs of residence, but I personally think its rule bending time. Besides, when a pretty girl caught in a downpour asks you for help, something in the male psyche finds it difficult to say ‘no’. Hero time.
“Well, I think I have everything I need here. This should only take a minute”. Taking a slim leather case from my shirt pocket, I withdraw a bendy piece of metal and a slightly shorter piece of metal bent in a different way. Taking the shorter piece, I place it in the lock. I then take the longer piece and move it up and down. Snk, snk, chrk. With my pinky, I turn the short piece counterclockwise. It turns all the way, throwing the bolt. Thirty five seconds. I turn the handle and hold the door open. She is, well, dumbfounded. “Oh my goodness, that was so fast, how did you do that?” On the inside I am smirking but on the outside all I allow myself is a nod and an ever so slight pursing of the lips. Professional. It’s all about attitude in this business, and cold, confident efficiency is the way to go. Professionalism!
She asks me about the price, finally. Took her long enough, I very nearly had to give her the slightly upraised right eyebrow. “That’ll be eighty five dollars, please.” She seems a bit taken aback. “Eighty five dollars, really? But it only took you a minute!” she protests. Thirty five seconds, actually, I think, but all I say is “Well, it is after hours. Sixty five dollars is the base rate, and there is a twenty dollar surcharge for after-hours calls”. She opens her mouth, pauses, and finally says, “I don’t have eighty five dollars on me. I’m sorry”. Then she gives me a Look.
I am uncertain what the Look means precisely, but I do know that I am incapable of saying no to a woman, especially a woman giving me a Look. Now what?
I tell her, “I can send you a bill”. I wave my clipboard vaguely to remind her I have her name and address. “I just need your signature here?” She signs my form gratefully. My mind is kicking my mouth. ‘Talk to her, you moron!’ my mind yells at me. “Ahhhh…..” I venture. She looks at me. ‘Oooh, smooth. How did I ever end up saddled with a moron like you?’ my brain wants to know. She looks at me… and the end of her mouth twitches, ever so slightly. “Look,” I say “that lock is really on its way out. You should think about getting a new one as soon as possible.” She’s still looking at me.
I clear my throat. “Well, here’s my card. When you want to change that lock, give me a call.” I take my card out and write my number on the back. “And if you lock yourself out again, give me a call. I’m writing my cell phone number on the back”. I hand her the card. “Thanks,” she says with a slight yet highly disconcerting smile. “I’ll do that”. I turn to go. “Enjoy your sandwich!” she calls. “Thanks, I will.” I say as I leave.
That’s strange. I was just dreaming of eating a sandwich when my phone woke me up.
Why yes, I do in fact realize that that is a cliché. Pretty much the ultimate cliché. In the interest of verisimilitude, however, I feel that I must tell you that it really was a dark and stormy night.
There.
Anyway. That night- which we have established previously as being both stormy and dark- there was a call on my cell. It came at about 3:30 or 4:00. I keep my cell on, plugged in to the charger, and no less than three feet from my head. Within arm's reach, in other words. In case it rings in the middle of the night. As it did this lightless and torrid evening. BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!
I groan piteously, in case that would make it stop. It didn't work. I reach into the darkness and find the answer button on the second try.
"Lo?" says I.
It's a customer. Locked out of her apartment. Keys lost. Very rainy. Please come? Twenty minutes, I promise, knowing there was little chance it would be less than thirty. I curse a bit, pull on jeans from the floor, find a shirt that isn't to smelly, pull on my boots, grab my jacket and hat and cigarettes and lighter.
I get into my truck, turn on the engine, crank the radio to “deafening”. The rain is coming down in buckets. Rain splats against the windshield vengefully until I turn on the wipers. I roar into the Brooklyn night, a cranky and tired knight on a battered pickup horse. I glance at my PDA for the customer’s address and nearly sideswipe a dented and rusty Honda. The driver honks his horn, causing me to glance up. I haul the wheel to the left just in time. He honks and flips me the bird. Jamming a cigarette into my mouth, I light it with shaky fingers.
The customer is a woman in her early twenties who is huddled under a tree for the meager protection it affords against the rain. I tap the horn once, and she looks up, startled, until she sees the word ‘Locksmith’ painted on the driver’s side door. She starts yelling her predicament at me as I dismount.
“I lost my keys” she says. I take a folding umbrella from the door pocket and hand it to her. “No problem,” I say, knowing that I radiate professionalism, “I’m here to help”. A bit hokey, that line, but it always reassures people. When you have occasion to call a locksmith at 3:30 AM, you need some reassurance by the time he or she arrives, and I know how to play the roll. “How much is it going to cost?” she wants to know. I take my flashlight from its pouch on my belt and shine it at the lock. Single sided deadbolt, no big deal. Also not much protection from any budding villain wanting to break in. Not, however, my problem. I pull my clipboard from the truck. “No problemo” says I, “but first things first. Are you the owner of this home or business?”
She stares blankly at me for a second. “No,” she says, “I rent”. Mmm, hmm. I dutifully jot this down on my form.
“ID and proof of residence?”
She fishes in her purse for a long while and eventually surfaces with her driver’s license, which she hands to me. I make a note of all her particulars. Name, Sarah Rosen. DOB, 1-8-81. Sex F. Eyes BR. Ht 5-3. ID 598 076 22. I notice her signature. She makes a smiley face in the O. The address matches the one on her license. What the hell. I’m really supposed to ask for a few proofs of residence, but I personally think its rule bending time. Besides, when a pretty girl caught in a downpour asks you for help, something in the male psyche finds it difficult to say ‘no’. Hero time.
“Well, I think I have everything I need here. This should only take a minute”. Taking a slim leather case from my shirt pocket, I withdraw a bendy piece of metal and a slightly shorter piece of metal bent in a different way. Taking the shorter piece, I place it in the lock. I then take the longer piece and move it up and down. Snk, snk, chrk. With my pinky, I turn the short piece counterclockwise. It turns all the way, throwing the bolt. Thirty five seconds. I turn the handle and hold the door open. She is, well, dumbfounded. “Oh my goodness, that was so fast, how did you do that?” On the inside I am smirking but on the outside all I allow myself is a nod and an ever so slight pursing of the lips. Professional. It’s all about attitude in this business, and cold, confident efficiency is the way to go. Professionalism!
She asks me about the price, finally. Took her long enough, I very nearly had to give her the slightly upraised right eyebrow. “That’ll be eighty five dollars, please.” She seems a bit taken aback. “Eighty five dollars, really? But it only took you a minute!” she protests. Thirty five seconds, actually, I think, but all I say is “Well, it is after hours. Sixty five dollars is the base rate, and there is a twenty dollar surcharge for after-hours calls”. She opens her mouth, pauses, and finally says, “I don’t have eighty five dollars on me. I’m sorry”. Then she gives me a Look.
I am uncertain what the Look means precisely, but I do know that I am incapable of saying no to a woman, especially a woman giving me a Look. Now what?
I tell her, “I can send you a bill”. I wave my clipboard vaguely to remind her I have her name and address. “I just need your signature here?” She signs my form gratefully. My mind is kicking my mouth. ‘Talk to her, you moron!’ my mind yells at me. “Ahhhh…..” I venture. She looks at me. ‘Oooh, smooth. How did I ever end up saddled with a moron like you?’ my brain wants to know. She looks at me… and the end of her mouth twitches, ever so slightly. “Look,” I say “that lock is really on its way out. You should think about getting a new one as soon as possible.” She’s still looking at me.
I clear my throat. “Well, here’s my card. When you want to change that lock, give me a call.” I take my card out and write my number on the back. “And if you lock yourself out again, give me a call. I’m writing my cell phone number on the back”. I hand her the card. “Thanks,” she says with a slight yet highly disconcerting smile. “I’ll do that”. I turn to go. “Enjoy your sandwich!” she calls. “Thanks, I will.” I say as I leave.
That’s strange. I was just dreaming of eating a sandwich when my phone woke me up.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Character: the Protagonist
The Protagonist, or the Narrator, as I like to call him (and this is my damn novel so I'll do as I damn well please) is a young (mid twenties) caffeine addicted locksmith/philosopher who has been quite depressed lately.
Anyone who cares to suggest that the Narrator is a thinly disguised version of myself is sadly mistaken; he is about six inches taller and has a far cooler haircut.
Anyone who cares to suggest that the Narrator is a thinly disguised version of myself is sadly mistaken; he is about six inches taller and has a far cooler haircut.
Setting
I just found the greatest setting in all the city for my villian (a vampire) to hang out.
In Boro Park, on the corner of McDonald Avenue and Bay Parkway, there is A) Washington Cemetary and B) a huge Con Ed facility.
The cemetary is exactly as spooky as your average evil vampire would require, with lots of those stone house- looking grave things to sleep in during the day, but that isn't the creepiest part of that particular intersection.
The Con Ed building, relic of the Sixties when architechs thought that the outside of industrial buildings should look like the the packing crate an industrial-type machine would come in, is a seriously eldritch place in a post-modern Blade Runnerish way, as though the telephone company had a Ministry of Fear designed by Luis Kahn.
Did I just write a fifty-six word sentence? I'm never getting published. :-(
Anyway, this building right next door to the cemetary has a blank gray brick face decorated by these crinkly metal thingies that look like corrugated cardboard. There is a huge driveway, and all the entrances are in the back. The chain link gate is only seven feet high, with three strings of rusty barbed wire running along the top. There is a tiny sign affixed to the fence saying "Danger- High Voltage". There is one, count em one, video camera, and it faces the wrong way (ie, it faces the yard to watch the employees, not the front facing potential breakers-in and treaspassers). This level of security would hardly do for a lemonade stand in this section of Brooklyn, let alone a massive Con Ed facility pumping electricity to most of Brooklyn South (including this computer).
Why don't they get more break-ins? Indeed, this must be the only large building for fifty miles that is not covered in graffiti.
Two reasons. First, the sound emanting from the building. It is a deep rumbling sound, brrrmmmmm, brrrrmmmmm, brrrmmmmm, which is juuuust barely on the edge of human hearing. You can't really hear it. What you do is you feel it, deep down in your gut, and it tells you precisely how long it's been since the last time you visited the bathroom, and if you don't find another bathroom RIGHT NOW, it will just haver to make it's own arrangements.
Second reason, for those would be miscreants and grafitti artists with stronger GI tracts than mine, is the dead pigeons.
These really and truly make no sense. Yes, there are a zillion wires coming out of the building, but they all go the other way, and besides, why are all the dead pigeons about three feet away from the building, littering the sidewalk? What the hell is it about this building that kills pigeons?
That's what I love about living in Brooklyn, especially if you plan on writing dark spooky fiction. You don't have to wrack your brain coming up with atmosphere because you just have to loojk out your window or take a walk.
In Boro Park, on the corner of McDonald Avenue and Bay Parkway, there is A) Washington Cemetary and B) a huge Con Ed facility.
The cemetary is exactly as spooky as your average evil vampire would require, with lots of those stone house- looking grave things to sleep in during the day, but that isn't the creepiest part of that particular intersection.
The Con Ed building, relic of the Sixties when architechs thought that the outside of industrial buildings should look like the the packing crate an industrial-type machine would come in, is a seriously eldritch place in a post-modern Blade Runnerish way, as though the telephone company had a Ministry of Fear designed by Luis Kahn.
Did I just write a fifty-six word sentence? I'm never getting published. :-(
Anyway, this building right next door to the cemetary has a blank gray brick face decorated by these crinkly metal thingies that look like corrugated cardboard. There is a huge driveway, and all the entrances are in the back. The chain link gate is only seven feet high, with three strings of rusty barbed wire running along the top. There is a tiny sign affixed to the fence saying "Danger- High Voltage". There is one, count em one, video camera, and it faces the wrong way (ie, it faces the yard to watch the employees, not the front facing potential breakers-in and treaspassers). This level of security would hardly do for a lemonade stand in this section of Brooklyn, let alone a massive Con Ed facility pumping electricity to most of Brooklyn South (including this computer).
Why don't they get more break-ins? Indeed, this must be the only large building for fifty miles that is not covered in graffiti.
Two reasons. First, the sound emanting from the building. It is a deep rumbling sound, brrrmmmmm, brrrrmmmmm, brrrmmmmm, which is juuuust barely on the edge of human hearing. You can't really hear it. What you do is you feel it, deep down in your gut, and it tells you precisely how long it's been since the last time you visited the bathroom, and if you don't find another bathroom RIGHT NOW, it will just haver to make it's own arrangements.
Second reason, for those would be miscreants and grafitti artists with stronger GI tracts than mine, is the dead pigeons.
These really and truly make no sense. Yes, there are a zillion wires coming out of the building, but they all go the other way, and besides, why are all the dead pigeons about three feet away from the building, littering the sidewalk? What the hell is it about this building that kills pigeons?
That's what I love about living in Brooklyn, especially if you plan on writing dark spooky fiction. You don't have to wrack your brain coming up with atmosphere because you just have to loojk out your window or take a walk.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
The Title...
I'm thing Jewish Bloodsuckers. It's funny, see?
Ha, ha, ha.
Ha, ha, ha.
