Seniors Speed Dating -- Flash Fiction

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“I’m 72 and fit,” he said puffing his chest out like a strutting tom turkey. He was carrying what looked to be a good cowboy hat.

“Yes, you are.” She smiled and tried to recall why she’d agreed to do this – speed dating for seniors. She thought it was a running joke for the thirty-somethings. What was she thinking?

The man sat down and laid his hat on the table.

“Been married four times. The middle two were young and hot, just after my money.”

Her smile disappeared.

“Trudy, the last one was a beautiful woman. I knew her back in college. She took care of me. Elegant, you know?” The more he talked of Trudy, the softer his voice became. “But she died.”

His gentility disappeared.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She tried to redirect his attention for this ridiculous meet and greet. “What do you do?”

“As little as possible. I’m an old football player. Have some exercise equipment, but don’t seem to find the time to use it as much as I used to. You know what they say ‘Once you retire, you don’t see how you ever had time to work.’”

She thought about the blind guy – what was that? Two men ago? Maybe three. Eight minutes with each man. Too long for this football player, not long enough for Nathan, the blind guy.

Nathan still rode the Light Rail into Denver three days a week. He’s an accountant and still services half a dozen long-time clients. His daughter and two other young people (he considers 50’s to be young) took over the firm four years ago. But he still enjoys the work.

“What did you do before you retired?”

“Insurance. Almost got a degree in Petroleum Engineering, but my eligibility ran out. Then I got drafted.”

“Vietnam?” she asked.

“Nah. Dallas.”

“Oh, I see.” Five more minutes. “What do you like to do for fun? Travel?” she prompted him. Might as well encourage him to express his best side. “Eat out? Go to movies?”

“Sure. Travel. I got a Lexus RC F.”

She knew Lexus, but what was an RC F?

“Exhilaration from the asphalt up,” he quoted from what must have been a television ad.

It made her think of that Maserati commercial “I have a Maserati Ghibli, not because there’s room for my golf clubs in the trunk.” That’s when she changed channels, no matter what she’d been watching.

Nathan had said he walked or took public transport wherever he wanted to go. Or rode with friends.

“Where do you like to go when you travel?” she asked the former Cowboy.

“As a Lexus owner, I get discounts in the Napa Valley.”

“That’s nice. I like Napa.”

She and her Andrew used to meet his brother and sister-in-law there in the winter. Not as many tourists and nicer weather. The men liked steelhead fishing in the Napa River. She and Janine read and shopped. They all enjoyed the food and wine there.

Her dear Andrew drove a Subaru Forester. His knees were bad and it was hard to get in and out of those cars that sit close to the ground. He never would agree to surgery, kept saying he’d do it when they got bad enough, but he died before that.

Returning her attention to the speed dating that wasn’t nearly speedy enough, she asked “Where do you like to stay in Napa?”

“Oh, I haven’t been there.” He ran his fingers through a thick shock of salt and pepper hair, a bit long to still be considered stylish. “Don’t really know much about wine. I lean more to Bourbon and branch, myself. From what I hear there’s not much to do there. Been to San Fran, though. Played the 49ers there.”

“I see,” she said.

The blind man tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she said to the oft-married, Lexus owning, former Dallas Cowboy. Maybe it was important. Or important enough.

Self-Publishing

 

    Friends, neighbors, and kin there is great danger out there for the would-be-published writer. Just like this selfie, the self-published book is likely to fall victim to the vagaries of amaturism.

      If a professional had taken the above photo, they would have at least suggested closing the bathroom door. Though I am relieved that my bathroom looks fairly clean. There would have been a suggestion that I comb my hair and put on a little make-up. And, without a doubt, the photographer would have made my face the focal point of the portrait. There may even have been an attempt to catch some facial expression other than this wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look of surprise. How I could have been surprised when the camera flashed, I cannot explain, since it was I who pushed the button.

      I bought a book yesterday from a self-published author. He was selling them cheap because his wife found some typos in them.

      I had high hopes for him and his book and terrible fears. I am completing my own book Murder on Ceres and plan to also self-publish. Oh, bless his heart, if the only problem with his book had been some typos.

      I believe writing a book is like building a house. You can build a house without experience or training as a carpenter, plumber, or electrician. But having always lived in a house does not qualify you to build a house that works. The same is true of writing a book. True, reading books is essential to writing them, but it's not enough.

      Where to begin? Desire always comes first. Always. Because everything else is hard, lonely work. Next is a good teacher. That can be expensive both in time and coin, but if you're serious, you will make arrangements. That's where desire comes in.

      I had the good fortune to find William Bernhardt. And it's not important what the teacher writes, only that they do write. And that they understand the mechanics of writing inside and out and upside down. Otherwise, unless you are a much quicker study than I, they won't be able to explain it so you can understand it.

     And then you have to listen to what they say. Personally, I do not like to be told. Anything. So my first reaction to any kind of instruction is negative. I never follow instructions until I discover for myself that my way won't work. After all, without the concept of mid-course corrections, we'd never have made it to the moon. And my mid-course correction involves arguing with my teacher, going away and thinking about what he said, and finally seeing that he is right. Then I apply it to my work.

     Bill Bernhardt has several pet sayings, one of which is "show, don't tell." The author of the book that started me on this rant, spends pages dropping brandnames and fancy places to tell us that his hero is rich and cool. There are ways to do this in a line or two. When an older woman is announced by her butler as "the Dowager Countess," we know we're looking at old, English money. When the hero climbs out of a natural gas powered Humvee, we've got a pretty good idea he's a former California-governor-type and his first name may be Arnold.

     If your hero's socio-economic status is not the main point of the story, please don't bore us with constant reminders of it. I promise we will remember that he drives a brand new Lexus even without your saying it every time he gets into or out of his car.

     Oh, yes, and that can easily get to be too much choreography. If he starts the page in Manhattan and ends two pages later on Long Island, we don't need a turn-by-turn narrative of his trip. Unless it somehow shows up later in the story and we were supposed to remember it because the bad guy takes a different route. In which case, the writer will have to make this clear some other way, because I will not remember all those turns and probably won't continue reading long enough to get to the bad guy. 

     There are lots of other opportunities to fall on our butts when we self-publish, but you're probably as tired of reading this right now, as I am tired of writing it. Besides, I have a re-write to finish.

     Bill has a website with his seminars listed and he has several good books and videos on the art and science of writing. Check him out at www.williambernhardt.com/