65 Proof (77 page)

Your next vehicle, a Ford Escape, didn’t escape at all. Again it was burned. Perhaps car insurance isn’t what you need. Perhaps you simply need a car made of asbestos. Or a Sherman Tank.

Your next victim, a Saturn, was bombed. So was an SUV belonging to the unfortunate Joe Morelli. You also had a hand in the recent explosion of a Ford Escalade.

Records show you just purchased a Mini Cooper. Such an adorable car. I’ve included it in my nightly prayers.

While the first few explosions might be written off as coincidence, or even bad luck, somewhere around the tenth destroyed vehicle a little light came on inside my head. I finally understood that no one could be this unlucky. There was only one possible explanation.

You’re sick in the head.

The psychiatric community calls your specific mental illness Munchausen’s by Proxy. A parent, usually the mother, purposely makes her children sick so she can bask in the attention and sympathy of others.

I’ve decided that this is what you’re doing, only with vehicles. Rather than feeding little Molly peanut butter and bleach sandwiches, you’ve been deliberately destroying your own cars. All because you crave attention.

But your warped scheme to put the spotlight upon yourself isn’t without casualties. I’m not speaking of your helpless automotive victims. I’m speaking of my wonderful company.

Writing this letter fills me with sadness, Ms. Apples, for you have destroyed my father’s dream. For the first time in our history, we are rejecting an applicant. This comes at a great moral cost, and a great financial cost as well.

Because of you, we have been forced to change our trademarked slogan, We Insure Everyone! Do you have any idea how much letterhead we have with that slogan on it? A warehouse full. And unless we hire someone (perhaps an immigrant, or a homeless person) to cross out the slogan on each individual sheet of paper, it is now land-fill bound.

Ditto our business cards. Our refrigerator magnets. Our full color calendars we give to our loyal customers every holiday season. The large and numerous interstate billboards. And our catchy TV commercials, which feature the jingle written by none other than Mr. Paul Williams, naturally called, “We Insure Everyone.”

What will out new slogan be? I’m not sure. There are several in the running. They include: “We Insure Practically Everyone,” “We Really Want to Insure Everyone,” and “We Insure Everyone But Margaret Apples.” I also like the slogan, “Why Can’t You Be in the Next Car You Blow Up or At the Very Least Get a Job at the Button Factory,” but that has too many words to fit on a business card.

You have crippled us, Ms. Apples. Crippled us worse than many of the people we insure, including the guy with the prosthetic pelvis and the woman born without arms who must steer with her face.

I hope you’re happy.

As a public service to the world, I’m sending copies of this letter to every insurance agent in the United States. Hopefully, this will end your reign of terror.

If it takes every cent of my money, every single one of my vast resources, I’ll see to it that you never insure another vehicle again. When I get done with you, you won’t be able to put on roller skates without the Feds breathing down your neck.

Whew. There. I feel a lot better now.

And though we aren’t able to insure you, Ms. Apples, I do hope you pass our name along to any friends or relatives of yours who are seeking auto insurance.

Sincerely,
Milton McGlade

So there you have it. Based on the minutes of hard work I’ve devoted to this topic, Stephanie Plum would not be able to get car insurance.

In conclusion, if I had only ten words to end this essay, I’d have a really hard time thinking of them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a kidney to sell on eBay.

A fluff piece for Crimespree magazine. I got a big kick out of writing this.

M
ystery is a broad genre, encompassing thrillers, crime novels, whodunnits, capers, historicals, and police procedurals. Two of its most bi-polar brethren are the tea-cozy, as typified by Agatha Christie, and hardboiled noir, best portrayed by Mickey Spillaine.

But with the constant re-catagorizing and re-inventing of sub-genres, how can you, the reader, tell the difference?

Fear no more! Here is a definitive set of criteria to determine if that potential bookstore purchase The Winnipeg Watersports Caper is about a gentleman boat thief, or a serial killer with an overactive bladder.

If the book has an elderly character that solves crimes in her spare time, it is a cozy.

If the book has an elderly character that gets shot seven times in the face and then raped, it is hardboiled.

If the protagonist drinks herbal tea, and eats scones, it is a cozy.

If the protagonist drinks whiskey, and makes other people eat their teeth, it is hardboiled.

If a cat, dog, or other cute domestic animal helps solve the crime, it is a cozy.

If a cat, dog, or other cute domestic animal is set on fire, it is hardboiled.

If the book has a character named Agnes, Dorothy, or Smythe, it is a cozy.

If the book has a character named Hammer, Crotch, or Dickface, it is hardboiled.

If the murder scene involves antiques, it is cozy.

If the murder scene involves entrails, it is hardboiled.

If the hero does any sort of knitting, crafting, or pet-sitting, it is a cozy.

If the hero does any sort of maiming, beating, or humping, it is hardboiled.

If the sidekick is a good natured curmudgeon who collects stamps, it is a cozy.

If the sidekick is a good natured psychopath who collects ears, it is hardboiled.

If the book contains recipes, crossword puzzles, or cross-stitching patterns, it is a cozy.

If the book contains ass-fucking, it is hardboiled.

If cookie crumbs on a Persian rug lead to the villain, it is a cozy.

If semen stains on a stab wound lead to the villain, it is hardboiled.

If any characters say, “Oh my!” it is a cozy.

If any characters say, “Jesus Goddamn Fucking Christ!” it is hardboiled.

If the murder weapon is a fast-acting poison, it is a cozy.

If the murder weapon is a slow-acting blowtorch, it is hardboiled.

If the main character has a colorful hat that is filled with fruit and flowers, it is a cozy.

If the main character has a colorful vocabulary that is filled with racial slurs and invectives, it is hardboiled.

And finally, if the author picture looks like your grandmother—beware…it could be either.

Another humor story about what it’s like to be a writer. Like Piranha Pool, this is semi-autobiographical, and pretty much anyone who has ever tried to write for a living can relate to the narrator.

T
he first time I ever saw it was at a party.

College. Dorm. Walls constructed of Budweiser cases. Every door open, the hallways and rooms crammed with people, six different rock tunes competing for dominance.

Rituals of the young and innocent—and the not so innocent, I found out that night.

I had to give back the beer I’d rented, popped into the first empty room I could find.

He was sitting in the corner, hunched over, oblivious to me.

Curiosity made me forget about my bladder. What was he doing, huddled in the dim light? What unpleasant drug would keep him here, alone and oblivious, when a floor thumping party was kicking outside his door?

“Hey, man, what’s up?”

A quick turn, guilty face, covering something up with his hands.

“Nothing. Go away.”

“What are you hiding there?”

His eyes were wide, full of secret shame. The shame of masturbation, of cooking heroin needles, of snatching money from Mom’s purse.

Then I saw it all—the computer, the notebook full of scrawls, the outline…

“You’re writing fiction!”

The guilt melted off his face, leaving it shopworn and heavy.

“Leave me alone. I have to finish this chapter.”

“How can you be writing with a party going on?”

He smiled, so subtle that it might have been my beer goggles.

“Have you ever done it?”

“Me?” I tried to laugh, but it sounded fake. “I mean, when I was a kid, you know, drawing pictures and stuff, I used to make up stories…”

“How about lately?”

“Naw. Nothing stronger than an occasional essay.”

“You want to try it?”

I took a step back. All of the sudden my bladder became an emergency again.

“No, man…”

The guy stood up. His eyes were as bright as his computer screen.

“You should try it. You’ll like it.”

“I’m cool. Really.”

He smiled, for sure this time, all crooked teeth and condescension.

“You’ll be back.”

I hurried out of the room.

The clock blinked 3:07
A.M.
. I couldn’t sleep.

To the left of my bed, my computer.

My mind wouldn’t shut off. I kept thinking of the party. Of that guy.

Not me. I wasn’t going to go down that path. Sitting alone in my room when everyone else was partying. I wasn’t like that.

My computer waited. Patient.

Maybe I should turn it on, make sure it was running okay. Test a few applications.

I crept out of bed.

Everything seemed fine. I should check MS Word, though. Sometimes there are problems.

A look to the side. My roommate was asleep.

What’s the big deal, anyway? I could write just one little short short short story. It wouldn’t hurt anyone.

I could write it in the dark.

No one would ever know.

One little story.

“Party over at Keenan Hall. You coming?”

“Hmm? Uh, no. Busy.”

“Homework?”

“Uh, yeah. Homework.”

“That sucks. I’ll drink a few for you.”

“Sure.”

I got back to plotting.

I raised a fist to knock, dropped it, raised it again.

What’s the big deal? He probably wasn’t in anyway.

One tiny tap, the middle knuckle, barely even audible.

“It’s open.”

The room was dark, warm. It smelled of old sweat and desperation.

He was at his desk, as I guessed he’d be. Hunched over his computer. The clackety clack of his fingers on the keyboard was comforting.

“I need…I need to borrow a Thesaurus.”

His eyes darted over to me, focusing. Then came the condescending smile.

“I knew you’d be back. What are you working on?”

“It, uh, takes place in the future, after we’ve colonized Jupiter.”

“It’s impossible to colonize Jupiter. The entire planet is made out of gas.”

“In 2572 we discover a solid core beneath the gas…”

I spit out the rest of my concept, so fast my lips kept tripping over one another.

“Sounds interesting. You bring a sample to read?”

How did he know? I dug the disk out of my back pocket.

I knew it was coming. Short stories weren’t enough anymore. The novella seemed hefty at the time, but now those twenty thousand words are sparse and amateurish.

I was ready. I knew I was. I had a great idea, bursting with conflict, and the two main characters were already living in my head, jawing off at each other with dialog that begged to be on paper.

All I lacked was time.

“Hi, Mom. How’s Dad? I’m dropping out of college.”

I couldn’t make much sense of her reply; it was mostly screaming. When my father came on the phone, he demanded to know the reason. Was I in trouble? Was it a girl? Drugs?

“I need the time off to write my novel.”

I hadn’t ever heard my father cry before.

I don’t need understanding. Certainly not sympathy. The orgiastic delight that comes from constructing a perfect paragraph makes up for my crummy apartment and low-paying job at the Food Mart. They let me use the register tape for my notes, and I get a twenty percent discount on instant coffee.