I am getting the distinct impression, dear reader, that we have now technically arrived in the spring of 2014, albeit that you wouldn't be able to guess that fact from spending any time outside anywhere on the mid Atlantic coast of the US of America. Nevertheless, and regardless of the weather, I must admit to a dereliction of blogosphere duty for a year or more, for which I can only apologize.
There are a number of possible reasons for such dereliction of duty, which might include (i) I had become trapped under a large and heavy object, (ii) I had joined a monastery and taken a vow of literary abstinence, and/or (iii) I had lost my typewriter (whatever that is!) to a band of marauding Cossacks. The truth, that I took a year off to write a novel, is only slightly less implausible than any of these three possibilities.
To those readers who have been waiting breathlessly to read 'Hamish and Veronica Take Manhattan', as trailed in my previous message, I owe yet another apology. No such story exists, except in my fevered imagination; but I suppose that without fevered imagination no stories would exist of any sort. Anyhow, my regular, slightly less-fevered, imagination has labo(u)red for a year to bring you a novel entitled 'The Shores', about a tragic bombing incident in the fictional beach town of Canterbury MA. Watch this space, so to speak, for news about that.
For now, in a thinly-veiled, in fact totally un-veiled, attempt to whet your appetite (when did anyone 'whet' anything other than an appetite?) (on second thoughts, don't answer that), I bring you the following extract, which introduces our protagonist. Enjoy.
…
Memorial Day, exactly one year before the explosions.
Jimmy Twelvetrees pedalled up the hill as fast as he could, his shoelaces dangling dangerously close to his bike chain, steering with his right hand and momentarily holding a piece of toast in his mouth, so that he could use his left hand to adjust his headphones. He saw old Mr Crabtree step out into the road just in time to swerve around him, almost losing his balance, and then regaining it enough to wave his toast in the air.
“Morning, Mr Crabtree!” he called back over his shoulder, optimistically. As usual, Mr Crabtree ignored him. “Miserable old bastard,” Jimmy said to himself.
At the corner of the park, Jimmy had a quick look around and, seeing no one nearby, cut onto the footpath that ran across the park, past the sign that read ‘Strictly no bicycles, roller skates or ball games’. He had calculated, several summers earlier, that, while technically breaking parks department by-laws, or some such thing that is of no concern to 17-year-olds, this shortcut saved him a good 5 minutes over going all the way up Park Road and across on McPherson Street.
Jimmy arrived at the depot at 3 minutes past 6am. Mr Gupta was already out front, looking at his watch.
“Come on, Jimmy!” he called. “You’re late already!”
“Sorry, Mr Gupta!” replied Jimmy, with a smile, as though pleased with himself. “The dog ate my homework.”
“OK, if you say so.” Mr Gupta rolled his eyes and gave Jimmy a friendly slap across the back of the head, which his young employee tried to dodge as he ducked inside to pick up his pile of papers.
“Anything special today?” asked Jimmy as he emerged back out into the early morning sunshine.
“No,” said Mr Gupta, “just the usual. But remember: just ‘cause it’s a holiday, folks still want their paper on time. So, no slacking!”
“Yes, sir, Mr Gupta!” barked Jimmy, with an ironic salute.
“How’s your mom?” asked Mr Gupta.
“She’s OK,” said Jimmy. “You know, the usual.”
“OK. Well, send her my regards. Now, go on, shoo!” called his boss, as Jimmy climbed back onto his bike, balancing himself, newspapers, headphones and toast.
Mr Gupta smiled and watched Jimmy swerving from side to side as he disappeared down McPherson.
Jimmy loved being a paperboy. It was easy, it paid pretty well, it was outside, he could ride his bike, he could listen to music. Today, because it was a special day, he had chosen a classic: The Ramones’ Rocket To Russia.
Jimmy loved being a paperboy even more on holidays, because he could arrange to finish his deliveries right down at the bottom of King's Road, at the intersection with Queen's, from where it was a short ride along to the Family Diner, where he could get as much milkshake and pancakes as he wanted. He would get a booth in the window and take all the time in the world.
Sometimes, if he was lucky, he’d be there on the same day that Alice Crabtree, granddaughter of the miserable old bastard, was working her waitressing shift.
Alice was smart, funny, cute, cool, she even had OK taste in music. How could there be a better girl than that waiting for him out there? Surely unrequited love would have to be requited eventually, he thought to himself. And in the meantime he would try to work out what requited meant. He made himself laugh.
Even if Alice didn’t come into the diner, he could always ride back via the boardwalk and check out how the ocean looked today. Which was not a bad consolation.
All these thoughts were bouncing around Jimmy’s head as he took a left and headed downhill along King's Road. The Ramones were hitching a ride to Rockaway Beach, his absolute favorite. He sat back in the saddle, breathed in the sea air deeply, and lost himself in rock ‘n roll.
...
OK, that's your lot. For now.
Who is Jimmy Twelvetrees?
Will he get hooked up with Alice?
Why would anyone want to bomb a peaceful beach town?
What does that have to do with the local paper boy?
What difference does it make?
These questions, and maybe some others, will be answered in 'The Shores'.
