COWPIE #5! Book hook

Howdy folks! Welcome to another quality installation of the COWPIE phenomenon! menon. mahna. Anyhooz, you remember the drill. Read this entry, and the one over here, and post a comment to vote for your favorite! Or post an entry in a comment to join in the fun! Voting closes Sunday night (otherwise this would go on forever - gotta count all these manually, you know).

Here's the prompt for this go-round:
Write the first few sentences (120 words or less) of a book. Could be any type of book. Most gripping entry wins.

So that's what I did. Microsoft Word will back me up: I've got 120 words - precisely - of the most hand-wringing, seat-edge-inhabiting, mind-gripping prose this side of the Brazos. Ready to blow your Chacos off. But prepare yourself: it's going to be a veritable roller-coaster of emotion. No sooner will you have devoured 120 juicy, delicious, well-seasoned, not-too-overdone, with a hint of cumin, savory words, than you will suddenly and inescapably be overcome with disappointment that what comes next will, in fact, never come next. It will literally be said, for years to come, "that's all he wrote."

But cheer up. In the meantime, you've got a COWPIE to devour! Enjoy every last fresh, steaming word. Without further a-doo...

(Actually, go ahead and take a minute to let that last string of jokes wear off before moving on. Okay, ready? You sure? Proceed.)

Chapter 1

11:55. It’s nearly time, Maurice. Oh well. Nothing more you can do now. Even if there were still time for agonizing, that wouldn’t make them understand. Friends. Bah. Each and every one of them false. Each and every one of them, regrettably, about to lose everything.

11:57. Fools. You warned them, Maurice. Weird science, they said. Fuzzy math. Bad religion. Petty politics. They wouldn’t listen to reason or pleading.

11:58. You can do this. You must do this – it’s the only way.

11:59. Was that a slight breeze outside? Is it possible? Down here? Can’t be –
but that means –

12:00. Time.

Maurice unzipped and stepped outside his tent. Taking one last look around, he ran like he’d never run before.

Regarding telephones

First, a grievance:

It's difficult for me to conceive of areas of our country from where you can still get a busy signal when making a telephone call. I suppose it's the sheer age of call waiting and voicemail technologies that make this particularly astonishing to me. I'd love to see some kind of nerdy statistic to support my bafflement, like "a decade of our time is equivalent to two centuries of ancient time" in terms of the development and adoption of new technologies.

I don't know why it drives me so batty to get a busy signal when I call a person or a business, but it does.

Next, the irony:

I can't receive text messages on my cell phone. A number of people have pointed out to me that "everyone gets text messages", so I wonder if this handicap, combined with the increasing representation of gray on my facial and cranial hair, ages me prematurely. (I think I'd actually be okay with this if it hastened retirement or discounts on food or coffee, but I doubt it will.)

Times like this make me reluctantly appreciative of God's sense of humor. Not to mention his amazing sense of economy at providing these kinds of dramatic entertainment at my expense. Blessed are the poor - for they will find they are rich enough to be made fun of.

One man's trash...

(from the draft pile...)

I recently sold this beauty to an older couple from Hearne:

Somehow, even though my life isn't ultimately defined materially, it still seems that the cars I drive have a kind of influence on the way I perceive my identity. Or at least, the way I perceive the way I'm perceived.

Take the Escort, for example. In a kind of "Blessed are the poor" meets "I'm so awesome because my experiences of early-life-stage middle-class poverty-approximation totally outdo yours" way (you know, the conversations where people try to one-up each other on what their parents made them drive as starter cars, and the like), I'd really grown into an appreciation of the kinds of reactions I would get as I started up that car close to a group of friends, and puttered away, carried along by an engine that was tens of thousands of miles past due for a tune-up. (Seriously, this was the car that could always be heard coming from at least a couple of blocks away, with its mighty 1.8 liter V4.) As an added bonus, I would make sure they got a good view of the back bumper as I drove off - or at least, the half of it that still remained. (Sorry, no pic here - the one above was my "best foot forward" teaser for the Craigslist posting.)

But it was as much fun to drive as it was for others to experience me driving. Consider all the "personality" that the new owners had to find compatible with theirs in order to want to make it their own:

-Windows didn't roll down. (This is because, after a while, the kind that you crank yourself start wearing down on the inside, and once it starts taking a strong man to roll and unroll them, the parts just aren't made for that kind of brute strength.)

-A/C didn't work on the top setting. (And the second highest-setting certainly wasn't cutting it in Texas summer heat.)

-Engine idled rough. More precisely, it shudder-heaved. (Best to slip it into neutral at stop signs and stop lights.)

-Transmission fluid and oil leaked. (No biggie - just add a little more every other day.)

-Visors weren't really movable anymore. (Sunglasses a must.)

The poor dear had begun to show her age, too. Peeling paint, rusting metal. A handful of dents and dings (other than the bumper, all of these were inherited from the previous owner, a.k.a. "Sistah".) But, having been built Ford tough, this was hardly cause to raise an eyebrow.

Ah, the memories. It wasn't my first car, or even my second, but it certainly was one of the most memorable. And who can put a price tag on such experiences? Actually, in this case, that would be about $450. So we'll hope for the best, but if it goes kaput, then at least the old couple aren't out too much money. May it treat its new owners well and not become rural yard art.

So, goodbye, my weird friend. It's been interesting. I say that because it sounds better than frustrating. But now I've got stories to tell, and that's something that money truly can't buy.