Read Online Roll with the Punches by Amy Gettinger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amy Gettinger
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now.
The man said, "Do a harder one."
"Sure." I flipped pages to PUDENTITIE and snorted. Racy sound, but boring colors: gray U 's, white I' s and black T's with only spots of green, orange, blue, and gold. "Of course, ineptitude ," I said. Like me taking care of Dad.
But Reynard Jackson wasn’t inept. Could he be an industry professional? Or one of those myriad agents and editors I'd given a packet to? Or Marcella Anderson, an agent who'd asked for the whole manuscript back in April?
The little man grinned and flipped to the hardest section of the book. It said: SUE'S STOUT GRAIN . Silvery blue with threads of green, red, gold and purple running through. Like Ladrona Beach at twilight. I scribbled the letters in the margin.
"Yep. Gratuitousness ," I said, and he clapped.
But my stomach was sinking. Reynard Jackson had taken my manuscript gratuitously, in both senses of the word: unjustifiably and without payment. Who was he? Who'd had access to my book? Mom and Dad's guests? Oh, God. Any garbage man or trash sifter in the county could have found an old copy. Wait. What about Yvette? If there was a God, it was her, but how could I prove it? I'd have to find out who in the writing group knew her, or if she had garbage man connections.
"Damn!" I slammed the book closed, making the little guy jump back. “Oh, sorry. Hope your wife gets better. I gotta go.”
I needed action. I needed a skate. No. I needed a good scream at the beach.Music Man in his chair and Mom were both flaked out, mouths slack, hands limp. They were safe here and could spare me for an hour. So I ran out of the room, down the hall, and out to the hospital parking lot.
* * *
Coiffed Moms with air conditioned vans gawked as I sailed by them down the 5 freeway in my Honda Civic with the broken air conditioning and rattling undercarriage, yelling my lungs out, flailing my arm out the open window, looking like Joe Cocker in concert. My hair whipped around my eyes and mouth in the hot Santa Ana winds that swooped down off the Great Basin that day just to add a little hot edge to our bland Southern California existence.
Post-Joe Cocker attack, my mind was a snake pit of what-ifs and whys and hows about both Dad and my book as the car seemed to steer itself onto the 55 south toward the ocean. I probably should have stayed back at the hospital, but the sand, the long swath of blue water, and views of Catalina Island called me like sirens. The ocean had been my best personal solace ever since at age seven, furious at my mother for some injustice, I'd written my first short story about whales spouting off Ladrona Beach, or Thieves' Cove, tucked in between Laguna Beach and Crystal Cove. Today, I just hoped the waves off Balboa Pier would belch up a clue or two to my plight.
My new cell phone, donated by Monica when she'd left, vibrated in the seat beside me. Hmm. Ten new messages, and Monica'd taken the secrets of message retrieval with her to Sydney.
"What," I snarled into it.
"Hey, Dragon Lady. You wanna skate in the park tonight?" Harley said.
"No," I said. My fantasies of roller victory from yesterday had been so stupid.
"You're a drag, lady.”
"Come on, Harley. No puns. I'm on overwhelm here with the book thing and Dad." I filled her in about Dad. "So you see my problem? In short order, I have to settle Music Man somewhere quick or find some saint to come and live with him. And Ralston House probably sent out a NOT WANTED poster about him to all the other senior homes. Then today, the hospital nurse told me there's no way my mother's going to Sydney. In fact, she won't come home for three weeks. What do I do?"
"Send Music Man off to Sydney on his own. Let Monica deal with him," Harley said.
"Are you kidding? He'd get lost in the airplane bathroom without my mother. He's the captain, and she's the navigator."
"So go with him."
"Um, who’ll pay for the ticket? It’s hundreds of dollars. And I'll get fired."
"Look hon,
The man said, "Do a harder one."
"Sure." I flipped pages to PUDENTITIE and snorted. Racy sound, but boring colors: gray U 's, white I' s and black T's with only spots of green, orange, blue, and gold. "Of course, ineptitude ," I said. Like me taking care of Dad.
But Reynard Jackson wasn’t inept. Could he be an industry professional? Or one of those myriad agents and editors I'd given a packet to? Or Marcella Anderson, an agent who'd asked for the whole manuscript back in April?
The little man grinned and flipped to the hardest section of the book. It said: SUE'S STOUT GRAIN . Silvery blue with threads of green, red, gold and purple running through. Like Ladrona Beach at twilight. I scribbled the letters in the margin.
"Yep. Gratuitousness ," I said, and he clapped.
But my stomach was sinking. Reynard Jackson had taken my manuscript gratuitously, in both senses of the word: unjustifiably and without payment. Who was he? Who'd had access to my book? Mom and Dad's guests? Oh, God. Any garbage man or trash sifter in the county could have found an old copy. Wait. What about Yvette? If there was a God, it was her, but how could I prove it? I'd have to find out who in the writing group knew her, or if she had garbage man connections.
"Damn!" I slammed the book closed, making the little guy jump back. “Oh, sorry. Hope your wife gets better. I gotta go.”
I needed action. I needed a skate. No. I needed a good scream at the beach.Music Man in his chair and Mom were both flaked out, mouths slack, hands limp. They were safe here and could spare me for an hour. So I ran out of the room, down the hall, and out to the hospital parking lot.
* * *
Coiffed Moms with air conditioned vans gawked as I sailed by them down the 5 freeway in my Honda Civic with the broken air conditioning and rattling undercarriage, yelling my lungs out, flailing my arm out the open window, looking like Joe Cocker in concert. My hair whipped around my eyes and mouth in the hot Santa Ana winds that swooped down off the Great Basin that day just to add a little hot edge to our bland Southern California existence.
Post-Joe Cocker attack, my mind was a snake pit of what-ifs and whys and hows about both Dad and my book as the car seemed to steer itself onto the 55 south toward the ocean. I probably should have stayed back at the hospital, but the sand, the long swath of blue water, and views of Catalina Island called me like sirens. The ocean had been my best personal solace ever since at age seven, furious at my mother for some injustice, I'd written my first short story about whales spouting off Ladrona Beach, or Thieves' Cove, tucked in between Laguna Beach and Crystal Cove. Today, I just hoped the waves off Balboa Pier would belch up a clue or two to my plight.
My new cell phone, donated by Monica when she'd left, vibrated in the seat beside me. Hmm. Ten new messages, and Monica'd taken the secrets of message retrieval with her to Sydney.
"What," I snarled into it.
"Hey, Dragon Lady. You wanna skate in the park tonight?" Harley said.
"No," I said. My fantasies of roller victory from yesterday had been so stupid.
"You're a drag, lady.”
"Come on, Harley. No puns. I'm on overwhelm here with the book thing and Dad." I filled her in about Dad. "So you see my problem? In short order, I have to settle Music Man somewhere quick or find some saint to come and live with him. And Ralston House probably sent out a NOT WANTED poster about him to all the other senior homes. Then today, the hospital nurse told me there's no way my mother's going to Sydney. In fact, she won't come home for three weeks. What do I do?"
"Send Music Man off to Sydney on his own. Let Monica deal with him," Harley said.
"Are you kidding? He'd get lost in the airplane bathroom without my mother. He's the captain, and she's the navigator."
"So go with him."
"Um, who’ll pay for the ticket? It’s hundreds of dollars. And I'll get fired."
"Look hon,
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