West of Mars

Welcome to a new semi-regular feature here at The Meet and Greet! Trevor’s Word of the Moment is just that: a word that Trevor likes, that someone (like you) suggested, or that Susan and/or Trevor stumbled across and decided had to be defined as only the indomitable Trevor Fucking Wolff can do. Read on, and be sure to check back often for new words.

Covert

What a fucked-up word. Why not just say sneaky and be done with it, huh? Noooo. Gotta get that oh-so-spooky government feel in there, that sense of being a spy or some shit like that. Want to throw in some aliens, Area 51, and Roswell, too, while we’re at it?

Speaking of Roswell, I tried to go out there once when we were on tour. Eric was gonna come along, but we couldn’t find anyone to drive us, and Mitchell said he’d kill us if we hitchhiked. Maybe one day I’ll get there.

Well, okay, I gotta use this covert thing in a sentence. So I guess covert is what Mitchell and I do when we put on baseball hats and boring-assed clothes and sneak out for ice cream and hope no one’ll notice we’re us. ‘Cause, you know, we’re aliens and shit.

Check in with the other Sunday Scribblers to see how many aliens they’ve got in their interpretation of this week’s word…

I’m feeling sort of lousy this morning. Dunno why.

But since it’s Only the Good Friday, that means it’s time to put the icks behind me and dwell on … next Friday. That’s when I leave here after lunch, head over to the Akron airport, pick up my good friend Ann, and head down to West Chester, OH, and join authors Lori Foster, Dianne Castell, and a whole bunch of others for Dianne and Lori’s Author-Reader Get Together.

I heard about it last year, too late to go, but after being at the Romantic Times Convention and digging the vibe of everyone in attendance, and then hearing how much fun everyone had at last year’s Dianne and Lori’s Get-Together, I had to go this year. Having Ann is what tipped me over the edge of temptation. She’s great fun to be with.

Best of all, I’ve gotten to chat with some of the women who’ll be there, via e-mail loop. Wow. Again, there’s that creative, fun, zany vibe. I’m pysched.

Ready for the icing on the cake? There’s a book signing being held on Saturday from 2-4 (use the above link for locations and stuff). Lori’s graciously allowed us self-published authors to bring our own books and handle all financial transactions ourselves (which is the scary part. I married the Tour Manager for his math skills, you know!).

I’m bringing 40 copies. With close to 300 attendees, I’m now afraid that’s not enough.

BUT if I sell them all (and the signing is open to the public, if you’re nearby!), I’ll make a donation to Lori’s charity of the year, The One Way Farm Children’s Home of Fairfield, OH. A donation beyond what I’ll spend on raffle tickets and other goodies, that is. A donation out of my profits.

Demo Tapes. Lori Foster. Lots of folk who love books for the same reason I do: they rock.

And great company for the ride down and back.

Yep, if that’s not good, I’m Trevor’s favorite bass, the one with the cracked neck that can’t be played anymore.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am no bass guitar.

See ya in Cincy.

And check out the other Only the Good participants, will ya? Even better, come join us! Spread some good throughout the world. I feel better just for writing this. THAT is the power of good.

You’d better believe I’m over the moon about my beloved Pittsburgh Penguins returning to the Stanley Cup finals for the second year in a row. Is the second time the charm? Time will tell.

In the meantime, here’s some bits about hockey:
1. The last time a team lost in the final and returned the following year to try again was in 1984. The team? The (much vaunted) Edmonton Oilers.

2. Back then, I wasn’t the hockey fan I am now. Hell, I was trying to survive high school.

3. Then I went to Graduate school — at the same school the Penguins’ current head coach, Dan Bylsma attended. I believe he left just as I was arriving.

4. Bored in the middle of a cornfield, that January, I was able to do something that the Penguins’ first Stanley Cup years had awakened in me: the desire to play ice hockey.

5. I spent so much time at the campus Ice Arena that I liked to joke I got my Master of Fine Arts degree in ice hockey.

6. (It’s actually in fiction)

7. All that time on the ice, in the locker rooms, hanging around the pro shop and the Zamboni room crew inspired a novel.

8. I actually landed an agent for that novel. Clearly, he wasn’t the world’s best agent.

9. Every now and then I think maybe I’ll put it out from under the bed and revamp it.

10. But we’re all having way too much fun with Trevor and the band. How does ice hockey figure into a rock band’s life?

11. I’ve spent many Penguin games sitting in the stands (we have the second-best seats in the place, I’m convinced of it. Who’s got the best? The players) trying to figure that out.

12. My fictional town of Riverview is home to a baseball team, The Otters. Maybe a hockey team ought to move in, too?

13. While I debate (and your input is quite welcome), join me in cheering on my Penguins, will ya?

Let’s go, Pens. I want to dance with Lord Stanley again.

I’d like to remind everyone that this Sunday Scribblings prompt does not necessarily reflect the views of Susan. Only of Trevor, since this is in his point of view.

They’d been summoned to dinner. Trevor fucking hated being summoned, even if Sonya had tried to soften the blow by making pot roast. She’d made sure Trevor knew that was on the menu. After all, no one summoned Trevor Fucking Wolff. Not if they actually wanted to see his ugly mug.

Bribery with pot roast, however, was completely acceptable.

“Boys,” Patterson said after dinner but before dessert.

Mitchell burped, turned red, and immediately said all the polite shit that Sonya liked so much.

Patterson ignored him.

Trevor waited.

“You’re both eighteen now,” the elder Voss said. “You know what that means.”

“You said we didn’t have to move out until we’d graduated, Dad!”

Patterson chuckled. “This is a lot less painful than moving. Unless the country goes to war.”

Mitchell drew back in his seat. Trevor reached for his cigarettes, then reminded himself he wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house. Even though he had the feeling he was about to need to. Maybe even something stronger, more soothing.

“You need to register for selective service,” Patterson said. He put the forms on the table. Where he’d just pulled them from, Trevor didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. If he wanted anything, it was for those stupid pieces of paper to go away.

“No can do, powerful legal guardian,” he said. He shook his head slowly from side to side, exaggerating the motion as much as possible. “I am what you’d call one of those conscientious objector people, ready to bolt for Canada.”

“What do you object to?” Patterson asked. Trevor admired his patience; if he’d said that to Hank, it would have been a quick left followed by two rights. And another shirt with too much blood to bother trying to wash. Not to mention what would happen to his nose. Again.

“All of it. Cutting my hair. Saying yessir to an asshole. And guns. I object to guns.”

“Maybe what you need is to be taught to use a gun properly.”

“Why? Planning on sending me back so I have to use one again?”

Mitchell cleared his throat. “Dad?”

Trevor looked at Mitchell. Blondie had turned a new shade of white; now, he looked like something fresh out of Sonya’s washing machine.

“Do you… do you really think…” Mitchell swallowed so loud, Sonya turned and looked at them.

Or maybe, given her proud smile, it was just coincidence. But it gave Mitchell enough gumption for some of that color to come back into the guy’s face.

“Thinking’s bad for your health,” Trevor said. “That’s the only good thing about the military. They don’t let you think. They turn you into mindless automatons who can’t do a damn thing for themselves except maybe, maybe wipe their asses when they take a dump.”

Patterson leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.

Mitchell mirrored him.

“Trevor, I spent many years in the military, and I can promise you that’s not true. In fact, if I weren’t doing my present job, I’d still be a military man. Our military’s important. It’s part of what makes this country so great.”

“I don’t care. I still object. They come after me, I’m outta here. Canada, get ready. Trevor Wolff’s on his way. I’m not killing for anyone, hear me? And fuck anyone who says I’ve got to.”

“What if you could serve without killing?”

“Yeah, right. Like they let you do that. Like they’d let me do that. Fuck, no. They’d take one look at me and tell me I’m the unit’s crazy SOB who lives and breathes just to kill and I’d better suck it all up and be a good little soldier boy and do it. Who fucking cares what Trevor wants or thinks? It’s for a greater good than one fucked up, beat up kid.”

“Mitchell?” Patterson asked as Trevor stopped for a breath.

That was, of course, Trevor’s cue to stuff it and shut the hell up.

In response to dear old dad, Mitchell the idiot uncrossed his arms and pushed at his hair. It was starting to be long enough to sit on his shoulders; at last, he looked sort of cool when he shoved it out of the way. “You know, Dad, I want to see the world one day. I just…” He looked at the piece of paper on the table and, again, swallowed loud enough for them all to hear it. “I just thought I’d do it with a band.”

Patterson patted Mitchell’s hand.

Trevor stared at their hands. Some stupid photographer somewhere probably totally dug that picture they made. Family love. Ahh, how sweet it was.

Trevor wanted to gag.

“Son,” Patterson said, “the chances of this country needing to use a draft are very slim. Registering is the law, and it’s one I’d like to see you both not break.”

Trevor peered at the form. If Mitchell was…

No, he told himself. Doing things only because someone else was? That had to be the world’s stupidest reason for doing anything. A man should stand up for what he believed in.

He’d come scarily close to killing a man once. He’d come scarily close to being killed. More than once.

There was no way anyone was handing him a gun and inviting him back to that Hell. No fucking way. He’d sooner be a Canuck.

Okay, before I get to the really great stuff, let me do some blatant plugging of myself…

First off, Amy at chic Book Reviews did an awesome review of The Demo Tapes. Again, here was a reader who didn’t know what to expect, who opened my book with some trepidation, and… fell in love with Trevor and Mitchell. Of course.

Amy’s also giving her copy away, although it pains her to do so. If you want to enter yourself — it’s a signed copy, folks. Makes a great gift! — here’s the link.

Secondly, I’ve mentioned the upcoming Bridgewater Book Fest before. I’ll be there, signing Demo Tapes — and let this be the official announcement: I’ll be debuting Demo Tapes: Year 2! — so I wanted to point you to the website. Recognize anyone’s name???

Okay. That’s all good, right??

RIGHT???

I’ve got better.

You see, a public library director in the Southern ‘burbs of Pittsburgh has been chosen to chair the Newberry Medal committee. The article ran in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette on Wednesday and I’ve been itching to brag about Ms. Cynthia Richey. Local girl does good.

This isn’t the first time Ms. Richey’s been part of the Newberries, and it’s not the first for local librarians to get the nod, either. I do believe that my local library’s head children’s librarian was on the committee awhile back.

And yes, this makes me think of the Weekly Geeks question which asks you to take a literary tour of your hometown. While there’s so, so much more to Pittsburgh’s literary scene, this is something worth bragging about.

What’ve you got? Join Only the Good over at Shelly’s place, will ya? Good news is always a good thing.

A few weeks ago, I introduced you to Mona’s Middle Eastern Eats. I had so much fun creating this new restaurant in Riverview that I wanted to explore it further. So… here goes.

1. Mona’s is actually owned by Steve Greenblatt, who grew up in Hackensack, New Jersey.

2. Steve was identified in first grade as being of gifted intelligence.

3. Sadly, Steve was adopted by parents of average intelligence, who assumed that their boy would be fine.

4. Steve graduated in the top 100 of his graduating high school class of 839 and went to college at Columbia University. His major was listed as Undecided.

5. Junior year, Steve dropped out of Columbia without having ever declared a major.

6. He found his way across the country and landed in Berkeley, CA. Tune out, drop in, dude.

7. A rich Marin County woman found him in a bookstore one day three years later and took him home. She needed a pretend son for an upcoming trip to the Middle East.

8. So Steve went.

9. Steve found his calling, at last.

10. Upon returning to the Bay Area, the Marin County woman proved too smothering. San Francisco wasn’t big enough for the two of them.

11. Steve made his way to Riverview. Went to work in a homeless shelter, where he lived. Nights, he went to the library and read cookbooks. He smoked a lot of weed. And he dreamed.

12. A return to the Bay Area was brief. It lasted long enough for Steve to milk the Marin County woman for the start-up costs for his dream.

13. And Mona’s Middle Eastern Eats was born.

Be sure to leave me a comment so I know you were here. And then, it’s off with you to visit all the other cool Thirteeners out there!

It used to be that if you wanted tickets to a show at All Access, you either stopped by Guitars by Gus or at All Access. You handed over the ticket price and walked away with a ticket. An actual, honest-to-God, printed up ticket. All professional and shit.

Springer knew he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like the way All Access had signed on with TRA. He’d heard from damn good sources, folk who’d stop in after they finally kicked the last drunks out, that they hadn’t wanted to use TRA at all. Problem was, they didn’t have much choice. No one did anymore. Not if you wanted to sell tickets to things.

He guessed he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten the early word about tickets going on sale a day early. He’d sat down at nine-thirty, getting up at nine so he could be awake after another all-night shift filled with plenty of coffee and not nearly enough pick-me-ups of the illegal variety. He’d made his TRA account, gotten his brand-new credit card approved and on file. He hadn’t wanted to get a card; Springer preferred cash. He’d seen too many people come into the store and hand over credit card after credit card, hoping one of them would be approved so they could buy their groceries. Credit cards got people into trouble. Springer didn’t want to be one of them. This card was for a twenty-dollar ticket. Nothing more.

Credit was the only way to get tickets, and dammit, he was going to be there. Everyone was talking about Deadly Metal Hatchet. About how cool The Hatchet was. About how they were doing this show here in Riverview, their first time this far North, as a thank-you to ShapeShifter. Rumor had it they’d be opening for ShapeShifter on their next tour. Given that the guys in ShapeShifter turned out for shows all the time, it was certain they’d be there.

Springer knew it was stupid, but he wished he’d be able to hand Eric a demo of his own one day. First he needed a band, then the cash to make a demo. Not to mention the music. But he could dream. And besides, musicians needed to go out and hear other musicians. They needed to sit and dream about when it’d be his turn up there.

Right now, there was no dreaming. Just a lot of pushing the F5 key, waiting for the screen that he’d use to buy the tickets.

And then, it happened. The dreaded white page with the little box near the top. Connection Interrupted.

He’d been disconnected from the TRA site.

He couldn’t buy the tickets.

For half an hour, he clicked on the button, getting more and more frantic.

And then he got through. One ticket, twenty bucks. It was his. They were charging his credit card … Two hundred eighty bucks? What the hell?

He looked more closely. Somehow, all those F5s had loaded seven tickets into his cart. For a second, he thought about buying them and scalping them. With his luck, he’d probably get caught and thrown in jail. Besides, what if he got stuck with them? He wouldn’t have two hundred eighty bucks for months.

Springer logged out and logged back in. Ten more minutes of Connection Interrupted. And finally, one ticket in his shopping cart. He hated the whole shopping cart idea; cool people didn’t use carts. They loaded up their arms and dumped everything on the belt.

The ticket price caught his eye just before he pressed the confirm button. Forty bucks?

He logged out and back in, getting frantic. It was well after the time the tickets had gone on sale. They’d be gone fast. But forty bucks for one ticket? No way in hell was that right.

He fumbled for his cell phone. Trinity was going to get her own ticket. Long story why.

“Forty bucks?” Trinity asked. “Do you believe this shit? TRA, man. I fucking hate them.”

“I get why.”

“Let me try two… see if it’s cheaper… Holy fuck, it’s more!”

“You can get through? I keep getting disconnected.”

Just then, Dad yelled up the stairs for him. “Your grandmother needs you. Stat!”

Springer curled his upper lip. Dad cleaned bed pans. He had no reason to use words like stat. But he did; he thought they made him sound smarter.

“Let me finish this, Dad,” he called through the closed door. “One second and I’m Grandma’s all day long.” Grandma napped every day after lunch. She liked it when Springer stretched out on her couch while she laid down in her bed; she said it made her feel safe. She’d made noises about Springer coming to live with her because we all knew that those home invasions never happened where there were young kids in the house. Not that a young kid who worked the late shift would be around when most home invasions happened.

“Now!” Dad thundered up the steps.

Springer told the computer to charge his credit card.

Connection interrupted.

He screamed and dropped the cell phone, Trinity still on the line, into his coffee cup. Dad came running.

It wasn’t just TRA that Springer was disconnected from.

Time for some Sunday Scribblings! Be sure to see what the DISCONNECTED prompt inspired in others. And gang? Leave a comment. Let them know you were by.

It’s been awhile since I did a Booking Through Thursday question. I’ve been able to resist them until now…

Here’s the question:

Are your eyes bigger than your book belly? Do you have a habit of buying up books far quicker than you could possibly read them? Have you had to curb your book buying habits until you can catch up with yourself? Or are you a controlled buyer, only purchasing books when you have run out of things to read?

With 526 books (not including what’s on my nightstand and in my book club bag, so 560 isn’t out of the realm of possibilities) sitting here, waiting to be read, you bet I’ve got a small book problem.

It comes from two places: one was the flood of credits and trades I got when I began online trading. I had books here that I’d kept for years, not sure how best to set them loose on the world.

And then, I won a sweepstakes, where everyone sends a book to the winner — except for the winner (who doesn’t know s/he has won until the books start arriving), who sends one to a decoy.

That was three years ago when I won that sweepstakes. I’m still working on reading those books.

*sigh*

All of you who know me from Win a Book, THIS is why I rarely enter the contests I post about! I shall get through this pile. I really shall. Granted, it was easier when I was reading 12 books a month, but … I’ll get there.

It’s been one of those weeks. Again. I seem to be having more of them.

1. Trevor would tell me to change it. Just… change it. Believe me, if I could, I would.

2. In the hoopla that’s been this week, I forgot to announce the winner of Colette Gale’s Bound By Honor. Let me do that now.

3. That’d be Janel, as picked by Opening Act #2 (pick a number between one and nineteen, babe. Nine? Okay. Thanks.)

4. Since my massage yesterday, I’ve been walking around with Whiplash stuck in my brain. Huh. How about THAT?

5. Ahh, the Golden Age of Hetfield (use that Whiplash link to see what I mean). Yum.

6. Mitchell’s still cooler.

7. And hotter.

8. I spent a big chunk of Wednesday on Demo Tapes — Year 2. You’re going to like it.

9. I’ve been too busy to really devote the proper time to ANY of my fiction, but I’m aiming to have Demo Tapes — Year 2 done before the Bridgewater Book Fest in September.

10. I’m not listed on the website (sniff), but I’ll be there, copies of Demo Tapes in hand. That’s why I want Demo Tapes 2 to be done by then.

11. I have a bunch of Trevor-rich outtakes ready to go. And a few to finish. I miss Trevor. In his own way, he keeps me sane.

12. I have this goofy idea that’s totally Trevor-inspired. Now all I need is the time to implement it. You’re going to love it.

13. Okay, off to it. Be sure to leave a comment so I know you were here! And if you’re not seeing me in your feed, be sure to update the link. We switched WordPress platforms and the feed might be messed up. Or not. Like I said, it’s been one of these weeks!

DMH, for those of you who haven’t met the other band around this joint, stands for Deadly Metal Hatchet. They’ve had lots of adventures, but this… this is essentially (although no one knows it yet) the origins of the Deadly Metal Hatchet.

Sheila paced circles in the vast waiting room. Really, a person could get lost in here. A smart person wanted to get lost in here. There were nooks, there were crannies, there were areas with TVs and areas without. Through it all, Sheila clasped her hands together and tried not to think. Only to keep moving, as if keeping moving would affect the outcome.

In her wake, a trail of tissue crumbs landed, barely visible even against the dark carpet. The tissue was in her knotted-together hands; she’d forgotten it was there.

The accident was the day’s worst so far. The boy was lucky to have his leg still attached and maybe he’d have been luckier if it had just ripped free.

That thought alone made Sheila gag. But there was more.

Broken ribs, collarbone. A dislocated shoulder. Road rash galore. Definitely a concussion, hopefully no brain bleeding, hopefully no internal bleeding or organ damage.

Scans, surgery – and no real way to pay for it.

When she next passed the volunteer desk on her endless rounds, the brunette waved her over. “This is Mr. Bergen, from billing. He needs to speak to you.”

The brunette volunteer showed them to another cranny, one Sheila hadn’t noticed yet. It was actually a room, but it was dark. Or it felt dark. It didn’t matter. Sheila knew what was coming. Knew she didn’t have insurance. Knew that asshole deadbeat who’d done this to her didn’t have any business being on a motorcycle in the first place, let alone would take even the slightest little bit of responsibility or involvement after this.

Sheila wanted to grab those paramedics, the ones who’d saved her oldest boy’s life, and shake them until they explained why the hell they hadn’t let that asshole bleed to death right there, on the spot where he’d tried to kill his kid.

She was afraid the answer would be that the asshole had gotten up and walked away. Just that easy. Just like that wasn’t his flesh and blood there on the pavement, his son’s blood spurting everywhere, his son’s leg… oh, Fozzy’s leg…

As the billing man droned on, Sheila hugged herself around the middle and bent in half, fighting that sudden wooziness that smacked her in the face the way the road had smacked her son. The way it had reached for Fozzy’s leg, trying to claim it like an unpaid bill.

The hospital’s finance man — what had the brunette said his name was? Mr. Bill or something? — touched her back. He looked concerned, but Sheila straightened her shoulders and unballed the tissue from her hand.

There was nothing left. Nothing to wipe her watering eyes with, nothing to dab at the wet corner of her mouth with.

“Mr…” she started.

“Bergen,” he said. “And if you can’t pay it all at once, I understand. Healing your boy takes precedence over payment. We can work something out.”

Sheila put her hand on his arm. “I’ll find a way. I’ll come work here and empty trash cans if I have to, but if you people save my son, I’ll pay every last penny back.”

Mr. Bergen cleared his throat.

Sheila removed her hand. Little white crumbs clung to his arm hair, remnants of Sheila’s tissue.

He pretended to ignore the crumbs, rolled his shirtsleeve down. As he fumbled with the buttons at the wrists, Sheila licked her lips and knotted her hands together again. She tried to remain sitting, but couldn’t.

“We’ll be in touch,” Mr. Bergen said.

Sheila licked her lips again and nodded. “I’ll make good on this. I will,” she said. Add the hospital and the cost of it to the list of things she’d have to face. She’d have to call her lawyer and see if he could help. Last time she’d had money problems, he’d told her to call. Maybe he knew of a way to lean on the asshole, too. Maybe he’d be able to shut off these stupid visits. Maybe he’d be able to squeeze blood from a stone and pay off the hospital fast. No matter how reasonable they said they’d be, they never were. They didn’t care if a family ate or not. They just wanted their money.

Sheila was already working two jobs. She didn’t know where more money could possibly come from. Fozzy couldn’t work, not for awhile. Not after this. And Curt wasn’t old enough yet.

All that had to wait. First, she needed to know Fozzy was okay.

Sheila left the little cranny of a room and resumed pacing the vast waiting room. When she passed the front desk, the brunette offered her a new tissue.

This was inspired, if that’s the right word, by this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, Healing.