The story starts in 2010. That year, I decided to do two completely different novels for NaNoWriMo in November. The "rules" for National Novel Writing Month are that you start and finish a novel of at least 50,000 words in 30 days. By 2010, I'd completed six NaNoWriMo novels and I needed a bigger challenge. I decided to do a second sequel to "For Blood or Money" (first sequel was called "Municipal Blondes") and already knew the story of this Deb Riley mystery: "Stocks and Bondage." (http://debriley.blogspot.com/) I also had a story that I felt needed to be told. A dark side story that was unquestionably "literary fiction" and if I ever published it, it would sell all of ten copies. I did publish "The Volunteer" in 2013 and it has sold ten copies. (http://www.amazon.com/Volunteer-Nathan-Everett-ebook/dp/B00H4OASMU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1398816013&sr=8-1&keywords=the+volunteer+nathan+Everett)
These stories were as different as night and day. In "Stocks and Bondage," cybersleuth and mistress of disguise Deb Riley tracks down the murderer of a woman who left six running computers as the only clue to her death. "The Volunteer" is a journey inside the head of a chronically homeless man. Before I started writing, I decided that these two would one day cross paths. It would be the only point of contact between the two stories.
It happened in Savannah, a place I'd never visited until today.
G2's story (The Volunteer) finds him just off a train in Savannah and hungry. He finds a handout and in return for sweeping the front, a little cash at Sweet Charlotte's. In real life, this is a funky little pizza shop at Congress and Whitaker in Savannah called Sweet Melissa's. When I saw the place, it looked exactly like I imagined, but it wasn't open and I couldn't find the name anyplace. I checked at a nearby coffee shop, though, and was told it doesn't open until much later in the day. (7:00) Still, I could see where G2 got his pizza slice and swept the walks.
♦♦♦
WITH THE THREE DOLLARS he’d gotten from Sweet Charlotte, G2
managed to get a bottle of wine and was settling down next to a park bench to
enjoy a sip. It was full dark and most people had left the park. This bench was
a bit out of the way and no street lights illuminated it. Rather than sit on
the bench, G2 sat down beside it and leaned against the seat. He looked once
again at the reed rose he held in his hand. It didn’t seem right to just throw
it away. He took a mouthful of wine and let it sit on his tongue while he contemplated
the matter. The wine was a little sour, but at $3.50 a bottle G2 wasn’t
expecting Cabernet Sauvignon. G2 doubted that he ever got drunk on wine. It
seemed he never had enough to be drunk, but as the wine warmed on his tongue a
deep peace settled in over him. It was a clear night and he would sleep beneath
the stars with a rose on his chest. Perhaps he would have no dreams.
It was into this peaceful state of bliss that the woman hurrying
through the park with a slight limp on her left side tripped over G2. He nearly
choked, swallowing the wine in his mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said. “Are
you all right?” Not from here, G2 thought. A Northerner like himself, come
south to get warm. That gave him a sudden idea. He nodded his head and held out
the rose to her. She pulled back instinctively from his outstretched hand, but
then approached and took the flower. “That’s beautiful,” she said wistfully.
“You must be an artist.” G2 didn’t want to take credit for the flower’s
craftsmanship, but he still had a bit of wine in his mouth and didn’t want to
say anything. She seemed to get the message and sat on the bench next to where
he sat on the ground. She exuded confidence. G2 would have guessed she was much
younger, but her appearance in the dim light suggested a woman, maybe as old as
he was. He couldn’t remember right away how old that was. He had been 50 a
while back, but he didn’t remember if that was last year or a few years ago.
She searched in her purse for a moment and produced a ten dollar bill and
handed it to him. Ten dollars! She didn’t immediately get up and rush away,
though. G2 listened as she rambled on. “You get to be whoever you want to be
and no one tells you to be someone else. I know life must be hard for you and I
don’t mean to romanticize it, but I’ve often wondered what it would be like to
be truly free of everyone’s expectations and just leave everything behind. But
there is so much to give up; I know I couldn’t do it. There’s my friends, of
course. It is so painful to lose a friend and sit through their funeral and say
goodbye forever. How could I ever inflict that pain on them and just leave. And
security. Having a home, a dog, a job. Those are the things that define me.” G2
noticed she didn’t say a husband. He bet she was just as alone as he was when
it came down to it. He dared another sip from his bottle and offered it to her.
“No, you enjoy it. I’m afraid I can’t. That’s what life is about—what I can’t
do, not what I can do. If you don’t have anything, is it easier to give up what
you have?” She was silent a moment and G2 sat looking expectantly at her. Then
she rose and turned away.
“God bless,” G2 said softly. She hesitated a moment as if snared
by his words, but she didn’t turn back. She hurried on her way.
♦♦♦
Twenty-seven year old Deb Riley is in disguise as a 50ish woman and cousin to the dead woman she is investigating. Her disguise includes having put a pebble in her shoe to create a limp. She looks a little dowdy and the walk from the house where she is going through her subject's personal belongings to the bed and breakfast she is staying at, leads her across Forsyth park in Savannah. This is her story:
♦♦♦
Grover offered to drive me, but after my harried
experience with him in traffic this afternoon, I just said I needed some
exercise. It was a pretty straight shot across Forsyth Park to get to the
B&B and I could use the exercise.
I hadn’t counted on it getting dark.
The longer day here in the south had lulled me
into a false sense of spring. There was scarcely nine hours of daylight at this
time of year in Seattle, but Savannah is so far south that it was closer to
eleven hours here. It was dusk when I left Grover’s house, but full dark before
I was halfway across Forsyth park. I almost stepped on the old man next to the
path before I saw him. I don’t know who was startled more.
There is something about homeless people that
tugs at my heart. I’m no Pollyanna. I wade through throngs of homeless
every day in Seattle. Some of them even know Maizie by name and I usually have
a dollar that I can give them. I know Dag must have and they shouldn’t suffer
just because he is dead. But when this guy looked up at me, he was shy and
looked apologetic. He held out his hand—I thought a typical panhandler—but he
had a flower in it. No, it wasn’t just a flower, it was a perfect rose. A
perfect brown rose. The light from the streetlamp was dim, but I could
see that this wasn’t actually a rose, it was a piece of art. I thought at first
that it was carved out of wood, but then I realized that it was actually
something like straw or grass that was carefully folded, bent, and tied to look
exactly like a rose. I was enthralled.
“This is beautiful!” I said. “You are an artist.”
I sat down on the bench next to where he sat on the ground and rummaged in my
bag. I pulled out a $10 bill and handed it too him. His eyes got so big around
I thought they’d explode. Then he bobbed his head and said “God bless.” That’s
all he ever said. “You are an amazing artist,” I said again. “Do you travel
around much?” He nodded. All the way through the park, limping because of the
bump in my left shoe, I’d been thinking about how hard it was to remain in
disguise. Here was a guy who traveled around and I bet didn’t even have an ID.
“Nobody stops you from being whatever you want to be, do they?” I said more to
myself than to him. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like just to abandon
who I am forever and be nobody. I suppose that doesn’t sound at all exciting to
you. You are nobody to just about everybody, but still you can make this
incredible work of art.” I sat there silently for a minute and so did he. Then
I got up and kept walking. I didn’t look back at him because I couldn’t bear
the thought of him sleeping out under that bench, or wherever he sleeps. At
least its warmer here than it is in Seattle.
♦♦♦
Well, that was my trip to Savannah. Yes I went to the waterfront and read all the legends of every war memorial and riverwalk marker. I bought a cigar at the Savannah Cigar Company in the Market and ate at Anna's across the mall. There I drank sweet tea for the first time. It's kind of like drinking flat tea-flavored soda pop, but at least now I know what people are talking about when they mention sweet tea.But mostly, I followed the footsteps of my characters through streets I'd only imagined as I wrote of their encounter--an intersection of two universes in my mind, made real by the feel of cement beneath my shoes.
After being reminded of Deb's journeys, both here and by my friend Don who read the story online, I've decided to publish the sequel to "For Blood or Money" this summer. It is currently titled "Municipal Blondes" and begins overlapping with the previous story, this one told from the perspective of Deb Riley.
