writing – The Plot Department

Bella’s Very Last Attempt

Regardless of how many mariachi bands Hancho might hire, Bella knew her time with him was nearing its end. In the days that followed, he returned to his grumpy self. The dinners were no longer heavy spreads of flautas, fried plantains, and sangria.

Hancho grilled chicken or steak without seasoning and served it with cold salsa. He cracked bottles of beer and burped between bites. Despite his ever-bulging biceps, the man had lost all attraction for her.

Bella felt like a kept woman. She gave him one last test by hopping on Etsy and buying this gorgeous silk slip dress in burgundy. She wore it at dinner, hoping Hancho’s eyes would finally turn toward her as tears slid down her cheeks.

Listening to Hancho’s endless exercise routines made her sick. What about gazing at her once in a while? Asking about her day?

Bella tried three solid nights to connect with him. She cleared her throat, yet he spoke over her. She let him fondle her nipples while she talked about a new piece of gym equipment, but she might as well have been cloaked in armor.

On her final testing night, Bella broke down in tears. Hancho kissed her on the cheek, skipped to the bedroom, and shut the door. He might as well have buried her in that silk dress, spit on the tomb, and cursed her name for the rest of his life.

Bella had no choice but to form a new plan. One that will be revealed in the next post.

There’s an alluring piece of wardrobe made purely of silk. Should you use that link, I will be offered a few coins strictly for my amusement.

Hancho Steps It Up?

Just when you think you’re about to move in one direction, life has a funny way of asking, “Are you sure?”

Bella was almost certain she was going to leave Hancho. Her bags were packed. The costume was tucked neatly at the bottom. She even bought this gorgeous canteen, thinking she’d be living in the woods for months.

Lo and behold, Hancho came home one evening with a dozen balloons, a Mexican meal from Bella’s favorite restaurant, and a mariachi band. One of Bella’s favorite servers showed up to help. Hancho lit candles, dressed like he was going to a job interview, and waited for Bella to return.

At 7:30 p.m., Bella walked through the door and froze, wondering if she had entered the wrong apartment.

“Come in, come in,” Hancho shouted over the mariachi band.

“What’s this for?” Bella blushed.

“You’ve done so much for me, baby. You took a job so I could spend time at the gym. It’s time I pay you back. Sit down. I have wonderful news.”

Those three-plus hours he spent at the gym every day had caught the owners’ attention. They decided Hancho could be more than a patron. They hired him as a full-time trainer.

“So does that mean you’ll be spending more time at the gym?”

“Not necessarily.” Hancho took a sip of sangria. “I’ll be training with clients. You and I will get home from work around the same time.”

They toasted to Hancho’s new job. They ate, laughed, and giggled as if they were just meeting for the first time. The sangria kept flowing. Four pitchers later, everyone, including the mariachi band, was drunk.

Their server crashed on the couch. The band stumbled out of the apartment and nearly fell down the stairs.

As Bella’s vision spun in circles, she lay in bed listening to Hancho next to her and the server on the couch, both snoring like an entire forest being leveled. Before drifting off to sleep, Bella mumbled, “What the fuck am I doing?”

By the way, if that leather-wrapped canteen I mentioned earlier caught your eye, there’s a link above. If you pick one up, it throws a little change my way. Just promise me you’ll fill it with water, not sangria.

Protection

Bella dreamed she had morphed into a butterfly. She flitted among the daisies, sipping their nectar. With her butterfly friends, she drifted up to a branch high in the trees. They shared their day’s collection of nectar, getting slightly intoxicated, until…

Bam!

Hancho slammed the bedroom door. Bella jolted awake, half-expecting him to fling her across the room.

“Damn cats,” Hancho muttered.

“What cats?” Bella’s eyes stung. She needed at least three more hours of sleep.

“Outside. You didn’t hear the commotion?”

Bella shook her head.

Hancho groaned as he undressed. His once-appealing muscular body now reminded her of a medieval knight, except instead of armor, he wore freckled flesh.

“You got work tomorrow,” Hancho hissed. “In the bed now.”

Bella crawled under the covers, but she lay awake. As Hancho’s snores filled the room, she thought about that wool sweater, how it disguised her, but didn’t necessarily keep her safe.

She carried a can of mace, but it didn’t feel like enough. Guns were bulky, and illegal in New York.

Knives though. Or better yet, one simple pocket knife. Perfect. Bella grabbed her phone, searched the internet, and stumbled across this gorgeous one. She didn’t think twice. She made the purchase.

As she drifted back to sleep, she reminded herself that the knife was just in case. Hopefully, she’d never need to use it, other than to open packages, cut twigs (if she ever went camping, which she knew she eventually would), or slice a hunk of bread from a loaf.

There’s an affiliate link above. Should you purchase it, earnings will come my way. More importantly, may you use that knife in the most ethical way possible.

Bella, Part Two

As I zipped up the tent, I figured Bella would mumble a quick thank you, and we’d both be out like lights. But the moment my head hit the makeshift pillow, the questions started. Who was she? Would this be Abby’s and my last night on Earth?

I started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Here we are, two strangers, lying side by side—almost as intimate as it gets—yet we know nothing about each other.”

“Would you like to hear my story?”

You’d think the scream that prompted me to “rescue” her would’ve been a sign to say, “Maybe tomorrow?” or “Just a quick version?” But nope—I told her to go ahead.

Bella’s originally from Wisconsin. Estranged from her parents, who used religion as a weapon. Two summers ago, she’d had enough. She hit the road for New York—on foot, no less—wearing these badass motorcycle boots.

She had never been to NYC. Instantly, she fell in love—not just with the city, but with the wrong man. Hancho. A Greek Jew who spent more time in the gym than he did sleeping.

Hancho wore tight shorts and a muscle shirt. Bella fell in love with the veins running down his arms. She wasn’t paying attention to the force behind them.

“Sit here!”

“Get out the fucking way, bitch.”

She’d never encountered a man like Hancho in Wisconsin. Bella did everything to appease him—polished his lifting shoes, ironed his sweaty socks, handed him his 128 oz thermos between sets.

It didn’t take long before Bella lost track of her finances. One day, sent to buy protein bars, her card declined. She panicked. What would she tell Hancho?

She raced back to the gym—where else would he be?—and muttered her confession. For a moment, he looked at her like she’d turned into a rotting corpse. Then he resumed his workout and ignored her for the rest of the day.

There’s only so much of Bella’s story I can tell in one sitting before getting ill. It’s so tragic. Absurd. And it’s to be continued.

Until next week, I hope your eyes stumbled across the affiliate link above. May the boots fit—and may you never trip over your own feet. Bella didn’t. Why should you?

Friendship Application

You might be asking, “Who is this Doug character? Is this some kind of gimmick?”

My answer: Neighbor first. True friend second.

I can’t help but ponder friendship during this lonely time.

It started in March 2023, when I got a call from my mother: my father had taken a fall that could leave him a quadriplegic. I flew out to be with my family, and would you guess who called me regularly?

Not a soul.

This was before Doug. Before I was blessed with a stubborn, relentless, yet caring neighbor-turned-friend.

I used to believe that when tragedy strikes, the people in your life step up. I was wrong.

Dealing with my father’s near-full-body paralysis and my family’s emotional chaos, I didn’t have time to analyze who texted.

But I did notice who ghosted. Who disappeared. Who blocked me.

Let me be clear:

I’ve never been a perfect friend.

I love fiercely, but because of my Scorpionic nature, some confused that love with something sexual.

Have I crossed lines? Yes.

Said things I regret? Yes.

Lost my temper in moments of overwhelm? Absolutely.

And I’m sorry. Truly.

But none of my friends before Doug ever showed up with love, with boundaries, with real presence.

No one said, “Here’s how we fix this.”

No one said, “I care enough to confront this.”

Then came Doug.

I met him just before my father passed. And Doug and my father couldn’t be more different.

My father’s favorite position was sitting. Doug can barely tolerate sitting unless it’s in that vibrating spaceship of a massage chair.

My dad wheezed after half a city block. Doug yells at thunderstorms because they interfere with his daily twenty-mile hikes.

Maybe it’s generational. Most of my former friends are under 50 — some in their 30s. But men like Doug (82) or my dad (78)? They’re loyal.

They show up.

When my father died, it was Doug who called every day.

Doug who cooked me meals.

Doug who invited me over to watch a painfully boring Western, just to make sure I wasn’t alone.

Shoutout to one other friend — she spent time, energy, and money to attend my dad’s funeral. Regular contact dropped off after that, and there’s no hard feelings. She’s navigating a full life.

And that’s what made me realize, it’s not about political beliefs. It’s about showing up when it matters.

As for me, I could give two shits if you voted for a racist or a goddamn hobbit boot.

That said, I’ve walked away from people too. Not for who they voted for, but because they couldn’t meet me in my emotional truth. Judgment without curiosity? I don’t do that anymore.

If I love you, I love you.

Everyone else?

You disappeared. You dipped. You stopped showing up.

That’s the truth.

And what has all of this taught me?

How to be a better friend.

How to show up, even when it’s awkward.

How to have hard conversations instead of ghosting people you once said you loved.

God knows how long Doug has left.

But for now, he teaches me what true friendship looks like in the most consistent form I’ve ever known.

So yes — I’m accepting new friendship applications.

Virtual, in-person, wherever the hell I am.

Let’s be real with each other. If I offend you, say something.

I’ll be more hurt if you vanish than if you speak your truth.

And yes, despite how raw this post was…

There’s still an affiliate link in here.

Because story is layered.

So is grief.

And apparently… so is capitalism.

Minimalist At War

If I were an architect, all homes would resemble a high school gymnasium. In my home, I’d remove the basketball hoops and the bleachers. Covering the windows would be a black-curtain that would close at 9:00 pm and then gently open as the sun rises.

There would be four pieces of furniture: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and desk. Everything would be made of wood to match the floor.

Homes in the Hudson Valley are not designed this way. They are rickety. A magnet for horders. They scream “Look at me! I’m unique”.

I pondered all this while vaccuming my bedroom carpeting. If you ever used one, or been around anyone has, you know those machines can be loud. They scare the shit out of domesticated animals.

Once finished I heard my phone vibrating. I’ll give you three guesses who it was…

The postman? No!

Architectual digest offering me a gig? Guess again.

Hulu wondering when I’ll resubscribe? You’re terrible at this game.

Doug! Good old Doug, huffing like he just summited Mount Everest. “Been trying to call you. Please get over here now. The Amazon guy needs help.”

The Amazon guy needs help! Oh my God! Stop everything. I raced over there like it was Doug’s last breath…yeah, right?

Once I finally got there, the Amazon guy, a young, relatively muscular man panted while resting his right arm against a box the size of an average walk-in closet. “This thing’s a monster,” he said.

“What it?” I asked.

“Massage chair,” Doug replied on the other side of the box.

Nothing against Amazon but you’d think they’d send at least two men to deliver such a thing. Between me and the Amazon guy it took us fifteen minutes to get the massage chair inside. No breaks taken.

Inside this monster box, we quickly discovered the chair was in pieces. Required assembly. There was no way I was gonna let an eight-two year old man do this all on his own.

The instructions were straightforward enough. About an hour later it was ready for use.

The massage chair looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Put an eight-two year old man in there vibrating so fast you can hardly see his face, you’d think it would de-age him.

Watching someone on a massage chair looses its appeal after twelve seconds. I nearly left but Doug insisted I give it a go.

While on the chair I amended the list of items that would go in my future-gymnasium style home: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and a desk. All made of wood to match the floor.

Then, sitting of to the side, made of leather (maybe), meteorite (without a doubut), would be this massive massage chair. It would be vibrating non-stop as I would never want to get off it.

I sell my minimalist soul to the affiliate link embeded above somewhere.

The Oysters Attack? Doubt it!

Thursday at 3:30 a.m., my phone rang. Apparently, I’d forgotten to turn it off. Thought it was the alarm, but no—it was Doug.

“Get over,” he insisted, then hung up.

I nearly called him back with a “Fuck off, who are you to call me in the middle of the night?” but then remembered: Doug’s eighty-two. Something in his voice—panic mixed with acidity—alerted me that he was in desperate need.

I threw on my sweats, a torn pair of sneakers, and three minutes later stood at his front door. It was left slightly ajar. Through the crack, I called for him.

“In here,” he mumbled.

Never in all my visits had Doug’s house looked orderly. There was always some pile of crap here or a box that needed to be sifted through over there.

That night, I caught something from him—it seemed he’d invited an organizer over earlier in the day. I almost asked if he was selling the place, but once I found him hunched over the toilet, conversation was limited.

He wore a raincoat and was probably naked underneath, but I didn’t dare ask.

“They served these oysters at the opera and now I can’t get up,” Doug moaned.

He wouldn’t answer a thing about the opera—where it was, who he went with, how he got back, or why he was wearing such a fancy coat while hunched over the toilet.

“Tell me I’m gonna be alright,” was all he said to my inquiries.

I didn’t care to lie, so I said, “My hope? You’ll be fine.” Then I suggested a trip to the ER might be to his advantage.

“No, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Doug stood up, thanked me for coming, and escorted me out.

Here I am, a few days later, shuffling through my house like my knees had been glued shut. I want to cry but worry the aching that’ll come with any trembling. How I managed to compose this entry without reaching for a pain killer is beyond me.

If you dare to see the coat Doug wore, there’s an affiliate link in this post. Click it? Okay. Don’t click it? Also okay.

Ugh…do I have to?

It’s 3:50 pm on Monday. I’d rather do anything else than write this blog post. Such as Netflix. God, that sounds wonderful. Lounge on my bed. Rest my head on a pillow. Space out to Ryan Phillipe kicking ass so he can reunite with his wife and daughter in Shooter.

The better, more mature part of me prevented myself from going down that avenue. Mostly due to the fact that I set a goal to walk at least 5,000 steps a day. Each week the step count will increase by 1,000. Today, I’ve only walked 1,341 steps. That’s no good. I got to get out there. Get to 5,000 or more. Please, God, let that happen before the weather worsens.

It’s amazing how far I’d go to not update my blog. So far today, I’ve used two methods of distraction. One, laundry. Two, disassembled the kitchen sink pipes to scrape the moldy gelatinous grime from within. The latter was a must as the water would not go down.

Now I’m parked on a bench outside the Mudd Puddle Coffee Roasters in New Paltz. There’s a slight breeze. Feels like a tornado could be around the corner.

Wow, I’m scrambling for words. I so baldy want to entertain you. I want your praise. I want you to walk away feeling inspired and take action. Yet the words feel flat.

When I work on the novel, it isn’t like this. The characters suck me into their ridiculous lives. I chuckle like a madman as I record their fictional mishaps and fortunes onto the page. There’s a gorgeous confidence when in novel writing mode. Also, I’m not publishing the novel until the whole damned thing is done.

This blog scares the daylights out of me. I tell myself the blog needs to convert the reader into a client. “Oh hire me! Hire me. Hire this half-wit! Hire this nonsense machine who writes children’s books for adults. Hire the fool who can fantasize his way through a job interview but in reality boasts in an off-putting insane manner.”

I admit, that last paragraph was fun to write. It forced me to be real. Maybe there’s greater intimacy between you (the reader) and me. If not, that’s okay. You’ll live. I’ll live. I’ll continue to show up at this blog terrified as shit.

Now, for the love of God (you must think I’m religious mentioning God’s name twice. I’m not. Just spiritual), I must take a walk. Perhaps you do too. Whatever you do with your time, I implore that you make it your best. I’ll be back when I’m back (which will hopefully be next week if I can work up the courage).

List Day

Today’s List Day. This means I shall list where my attention has been lately–

Reading two books. What Is The What and The Poor Mouth. At night, I alternate between the two of them.
There are few TV shows that intrigue me. During the snow storm, I caught up on ABC’s Scandal. Totally up-to-date, I have a bloodshot left eye. Do Mac computers emit a violent ray?
Starting a business that will incorporate aspects of my previous jobs. Since this is in the conception stage, I will hold back discussing it further. Speaking of my old job, I’ve written an essay that outlines my experience there. Although incomplete, I’m considering uploading it here in segments.
Following the Paleo diet. I find myself hungrier as there’s no bread/gluten to stuff me. In addition to eating tons of greens, in the form of raw soup (thank you, Israel), meat, fish and eggs, I’m also loading up on Larabars. One week in, this diet, has improved my performance at CrossFit and has cut an inch or two off my waist. Could someone in Italy survive on the Paleo diet?
Continuing the novel. My progress is slow here. Once my business has picked up, hopefully in the next two weeks, I can dedicate more time to it.

Errors And Twisted Writing

Nothing bothers me more than errors in a finely combed document. Does this ever happen to you? You write something, put it away, then return to it a day or so later. Edit the hell out of it, read it six thousand times only to determine it’s ready to go. Published (or sent if it’s an email), you read it one more time and bam, there’s an error. It’s so tiny yet it drives you insane. You question your professionalism.

Yesterday, while in the city I met an incredibly intelligent recent college graduate at Barnes and Noble. We spoke of arts, economy, films, TV and writing. Before parting ways, he asked if I have anyone to read my work, that is before it’s published or sent off via email/mail courier. At this point, no, I told him. I’d like to see this become manifest. This might be a good tactic for all. Someone who gives a balanced approach to the work. Shares what works and what doesn’t. Someone who won’t take it personally if the advice isn’t taken.

Beyond the irritating errors, there’s also the twisted writing. A great example is my previous post. Mid-writing that, a most triggering email came in. Why I even look at my email while writing is beyond me. But I did. I do. Taken over by rage, my writing fell apart. It was as if I took a huge dump on everything.

Writing is an ongoing lesson. You try different things. If it doesn’t quite fit, you try something else.