A deleted chapter resurrected!
There are times when I think I should be locked into a straitjacket, and this morning is one of those (as you’ll see if you opt for the audio version of this missive).
I’m toying around with a new Red Mountain novel, and a new bad guy has surfaced…a real peach of a guy with cruel intentions. I’m plotting from his POV and pondering how I might destroy the mountain and its inhabitants. It’s slightly disturbing how much joy fueling my inner darkness is bringing out of me. Fingers steepled, maniacal cackle, while truly feeling into what it would be like to boil over with hatred, desperate to realize my revenge. My goodness, what a job, my friends. I’ll be doing this till they put me in the ground, or so I pray.
Anywho, I’m delighted to share a gift with you today.
I don’t know that I’ll ever love writing a character more than Whitaker Grant, the star of my 2020 novel, An Unfinished Story [https://amzn.to/4eywoa5], and it was so nice to jump back into his head as I revisited a wacky acupuncture-gone-wrong scene that my editor and agent cut during the dev edits. How dare they!!
If you remember, the opening of the book is Whitaker headed to his nephew’s birthday party. Originally, he was off to meet his extended family at a community acupuncture clinic. I’d come up with the idea while going through the experience myself in St. Pete, Florida, and it so cracked me up. But I suppose it was a bit much for my team. Maybe they were right. What do you think?
If you choose to listen to me read the passage via the play button above or through my podcast feed on Apple [https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/boo-walkers-drowning-in-words/id1871330758] or Spotify [https://open.spotify.com/show/7eT5GbBUYyTEtYRbgU4eZr], apologies in advance for my abysmal accents!
Otherwise, here it is:
The Lost Chapter from An Unfinished Story [https://amzn.to/4eywoa5]
Whitaker’s mother, Sadie, ushered the extended family—the whole crazy bunch of them—inside the doors of the community acupuncture clinic, where they were all to join together in a collective holistic experience. In other words, they were paying actual money to sit together, which was torture enough, and have some hippie jab them with needles. Who in God’s name would have ever thought of such a business?
The youthfully enthusiastic receptionist passed out clipboards of paperwork, and someone from each household scribbled in silence. Whitaker finished first and approached the large world map on the wall, thinking of all the places he’d rather be. Guantanamo. Syria. Stuck in northern Virginia traffic. A funeral. He’d even rather be facing his computer and trying to work through the first draft of his new project, which was still nothing more than a blank screen. A protagonist simply floating around in his head, not offering a plot, a point, simply knocking around like a pinball, each ping reminding Whitaker that he’d never amount to anything more than what he’d accomplished with his first book.
Eventually, the receptionist led them through a beaded door into the next room for treatment. With spa music setting the mood, the Grant family took seats in the blanket-covered recliners at the far end, as far away from the other clients as possible. Whitaker settled in his chair and glanced at the rest of his family, who were fiddling with the wooden handles on the sides, finding their most comfortable positions.
A dainty man with a long thin braid and a bounce in his step approached them and introduced himself as Damon, the acupuncturist. “Have you all been here before?” He had the warm and gentle disposition of Mr. Rogers and could break into song at any moment. Where were Big Bird and Kermit?
Sadie took charge and squealed, “Just me!” Whitaker had to give it to her. Her optimism was almost infectious, though more than forty years of evidence otherwise assured a less than desirable outcome.
Whitaker, on the other hand, could barely contain his urge to leave. Nevertheless, in the spirit of “family time,” he kicked off his flip-flops, sat back, and listened to their practitioner’s short spiel.
Damon ended with, “Everyone sit back, close your eyes, and relax. I’ll get to you one at a time. You can hang around as long as you’d like. Please, no talking. When you’re finished, raise your hand and I’ll come to you.”
Whitaker raised his hand. “Too soon?”
When the acupuncturist looked toward him, Whitaker flashed a happy rack of teeth.
Sadie swung a Popeye arm in the air and said (for perhaps the thousandth time this decade), “Witty Whitaker strikes again!”
The rest of the family laughed dutifully and uncomfortably. Whitaker didn’t dare look at his father, but he could feel the headshake of disappointment. No man could say more in an entire monologue than Jack Grant could say with this dominating gesture. The only thing they had in common, other than the toxic DNA, was their equal desire to get this over with as quickly as possible.
Attempting to push aside his daddy problems, Whitaker closed his eyes. Every few minutes, he’d take a quick peek to see Damon moving his cart of needles down the line, working his way from one family member to the next. There might have been some mild pleasure in watching his siblings get jabbed.
When it was finally Whitaker’s turn, Damon pushed the cart his way and asked in a whisper, “How can I help today? What’s wrong?”
Whitaker looked at the shiny needles on the cart and cracked into a laugh. “I’m mentally deranged, depressed, and suffering from severe tension all over my body. Not to mention father issues.” He not so subtly pointed at Jack, who glared at him from ten feet away with dark and angry eyes that were always shaded by his veteran cap.
“And my creative constipation could be likened to that of an old man who hasn’t taken a proper shit in a week. My spine consistently feels like it’s about to snap at any moment, and—hmmm. My wife left. I’m stuck in one-hit wonderland and can’t seem to…. How long do you have? You’re going to need more needles.”
Damon offered a sweet smile. “Let’s start with the tension in the shoulders.”
“Great idea.”
Ten minutes later, Whitaker was doing his best to relax. Had he been by himself, he might have thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but something about relaxing and family didn’t mix well.
Breaking the silence of the room, Jack whispered to Whitaker, “How’s the new job?”
“It’s… it’s a job. It’s fine.”
Someone in the family shushed them, but Jack plowed forward. “You’re still advising?”
“Yep.”
Jack chuckled. “What kind of world do we live in where Whitaker Grant advises people on anything? Jesus, when I grew up, you had to be good at your job or you failed. What in God’s name do you know about financial advising?”
“Am I supposed to answer that?” Whitaker wondered if he could pluck the needle from his forearm and send it like a dart at his father’s cheek.
“Advising,” Jack said, shaking his head.
Whitaker’s muscles tightened. He almost took the bait but let it slide. The last thing he wanted to do was start a public war. As is the case with such established roots, everyone knew the Grants. Though Sadie didn’t mind public spectacles, Whitaker despised them.
Saving the day, Damon came over in his regal bounce to check on them. “Everyone doing okay?”
After a collective nod, he asked, “Do you mind holding it down, please? There’s no talking in here.”
Another nod from the Grant family, and Damon returned to his office to go smoke a hookah or whatever it was he liked to do.
Father wasn’t done. “You know, I have to ask, Whitaker. Do you think you can hold onto this job for longer than a week? Your grandfather had the same job for fifty years. I’m on my second. Why is it all you kids these days feel like you have to find your calling? Why can’t you accept that working sucks and that you just have to get over it?”
“First of all, I’m not a kid, Dad.” Whitaker realized how loud he’d spoken and backed off. “Second of all, just because your life sucks doesn’t mean all our lives have to suck.”
“Forgive me, Son, but remind me which part of your life doesn’t suck.”
Whitaker bit his tongue. As he adjusted in his seat, a needle in the top of his foot stung a nerve, and he winced.
“Find your calling,” his father said. “That’s the worst gibberish ever uttered. I’d love to sit in the room when you advise those clients. Do you tell them to go write a book? Go chase their dreams? Follow their heart?”
Sadie typically tried to let things play out, but this time she chose to interject. “Boys, let’s keep this civil.”
Jack turned to her. “Where did I fail, Sadie? What did I do wrong in raising this kid?”
“That’s enough, Jack.” She raised her hands in prayer. “We’re supposed to be contributing to the collective energy of the room.”
Whitaker laughed. “Oh, I think we are, Mom.”
Jack turned to Whitaker. “If you had just stayed away from writing that damned novel of yours, your life would be so much better. But no, you had to get a taste of being an artist and happened to pen something that a bunch of bonehead literary blowhards liked. You thought life after that so-called “masterpiece” would be easy. Someone even called you a national treasure, didn’t they? Give me a break. Your grandfather was a national treasure. He fought in the war. What did you do worth the toilet paper that he used to wipe his ass in the trenches in Africa?”
Whitaker noticed Damon softly racing back toward them. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.
“You’ve really kept this bottled up, haven’t you, Pop? Let it out, old man. Exorcise the hurt inside. I think Damon is coming to tell you that he likes the energy you’re sharing with the rest of us. I know I do. Always glad to be dropped back into the jungles of ‘Nam.”
Jack let out a grunt. “It does feel good. It’s about time someone tells you the truth. That novel and everything around it turned you into a fairy. A little creative fairy. And now you sit around waiting for your next work of genius to come to you. How’s that going? How long’s it been? Ten years. Let me clue you in. You’re out of words, buddy. That fairy-tale world you’re living in is only going to bring you more and more pain. No wonder Olivia left you.”
“Jack!” Sadie said. “Stop it!” A plea from his younger sister followed.
Damon tried to intervene again. Gently asserting himself, he said, “Folks, please, no talking. I can’t have it.”
It was all quiet on the western front till he walked away, then Jack said to Sadie, “We failed as parents. But never once did I tell your son to chase his dreams. Not once!”
“Please, sir,” Damon said, appearing out of nowhere.
“Shut your hole, soldier!”
Damon nearly fell backwards.
Whitaker and his brother laughed at the same time, and Whitaker almost started singing the Mr. Rogers theme song. Damon, still want to be my neighbor? It wasn’t actually funny, and Whitaker felt for the kid for being sucked into the Grant hurricane.
Jack fired a finger at Whitaker. “You’re a one-hit wonder. A washed-up wreck of a man.” And, he added, “Olivia was always too good for you anyway.”
Whitaker felt like a blowfish expanding to the point where the needles might start shooting out of him. Other members of the family encouraged Jack to let it go.
Realizing he was out of his element, Damon stood silently with his arms crossed, staring at Jack.
“I had a dream,” Jack said, “that one day my son would get it together. That he’d accept—”
“And now he’s Martin Luther King,” Whitaker announced, the loudest words yet to fill the room. “Tell me about your dream, Mr. King!”
Jack gritted his teeth, then spat out, “I had a dream that one day you’d let go of this writing thing and learn how to work for a living. Get a job. Go to the gym. Pull yourself together. And get out of your goddamned head.”
“That’s a lofty dream, Dad. Why don’t you start with being a good role model?”
“Why can’t you be like your sister? Or even your brother! They at least understand that life’s not some polished piece of glass you slide around on. Life is a ragged edge.”
“Oh, I assure you,” Whitaker started, “I know all about the ragged edge. You might be a piece-of-shit father, but you taught me all about the ragged edge. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”
“Don’t speak to me that way,” Jack said, his face reddening. Much more and the needles would start shooting out of his skin.
“Do you hear yourself?” Whitaker asked. “You definitely left part of your brain in Saigon.”
Jack shook his head but didn’t respond.
“Oh, you’re out of words now?” Whitaker asserted. “Is it my turn?”
Jack waited, a smirk surfacing. He loved a good battle.
Whitaker drew in a long breath. “Never mind. I don’t need to stoop to this.”
“I should have thrown that computer out the window. You and all your books growing up. I failed.”
“Maybe you did, Dad. But I do have another book in me. Mark my words.”
“Oh, here we go. Are we writing again?”
Whitaker was losing it.
Damon tried again. “Folks, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Jack warned, “You stay out of this, boy.”
Damon turned away with a frustrated pivot, muttering that he was calling the cops.
Whitaker jumped in louder this time. “I’m always writing. I’m just having to wade through all the shit you put me through to find the right words.”
“Okay, Sherlock, so while the rest of the world goes to work, you’re wading through your dad’s shit looking for words. Let me tell you the truth. You got lucky and stumbled upon a novel. There won’t be another one. You can stare at your computer jacking off all day long. You had your time in the spotlight. Now it’s time to join the rest of us in the real world.”
“You know,” Whitaker said, watching Damon apologize to the other clients, “even the slightest encouragement over the years from you might have saved me. But something inside of you is so royally dismantled. That war took the human out of you, and it’s slowly taking it out of me too.”
“There it is,” Jack growled. “Still can’t take responsibility. I had very little to do with creating your joke of a life.”
Lowering his voice, Whitaker said, “I can’t stand you. Nobody can. Don’t you see that, Dad?” He looked at his mom, who was fighting tears. “Don’t act surprised, Mom.” Then he raised his hand, shouting across the room at Damon, who was now on his phone. “I’m done here. Will you take these needles out?”
“One moment, please,” he said, with an impressive politeness considering he was on the phone with 911.
“There he goes,” Jack said. “Time to start running. My little fairy named Whitney. Run away, young lady.”
“Screw you, Dad.”
Jack shook his head.
With needles running up and down his legs, like Pinhead from Hellraiser, Whitaker stood. He couldn’t wait for Damon. He had to get out of there.
“Sir,” Damon yelled from across the room, “let me take the needles out.”
Whitaker brushed him away and said to Jack, “I’m going to walk out of here before I throw a punch. But don’t think you won. You’re a sad old man with a family that for some reason has let you hang around. But don’t think we’re going to keep putting up with it forever. Your funeral will be a lonely event.”
“Don’t say that to your father,” Sadie begged.
“Oh, let him take his punches, honey. They fall like limp-wristed slaps.”
Whitaker had not anticipated how much the needles would hurt as he moved. He plucked the ones he could get to and tossed them to the ground as he offered apologies around the room.
Though Whitaker was simply preoccupied with pain, Jack took it as being ignored. “There he goes, fucking up another family excursion. Been doing that since he was in diapers.”
It was all Whitaker could do not to flip the recliner backwards. Instead, though, because he was one of the only sane ones in the family, he bit back his words, held back his rage, and turned to go.
His foot caught an edge of the carpet, and he tumbled. Had he gotten all the needles, he would have been fine, but he’d missed a few and at least two or three jutted deeper into his skin. He howled in pain.
Damon was there in an instant, scrambling to save the day. Everyone in the room, all of them stuck with needles, a whole lot of fucking Pinheads, watched with mouths agape.
Sadie begged for it all to stop. And Jack, the great soldier, the patriarch of this botched crew of humans, broke into a belly laugh that captured exactly everything wrong with Whitaker Grant.
“I want out,” Whitaker whispered to himself, the pain pulling tears from his eyes. “I just want out.”
Thanks for reading, amigos. Much love from Maine. Talk to you soon.
Get full access to Drowning in Words at boowalker.substack.com/subscribe [https://boowalker.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]
