{"id":431303,"date":"2015-07-25T13:24:01","date_gmt":"2015-07-25T18:24:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2013\/?p=431303"},"modified":"2025-10-26T14:23:05","modified_gmt":"2025-10-26T19:23:05","slug":"eradicating-edna","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/eradicating-edna\/","title":{"rendered":"Eradicating Edna"},"content":{"rendered":"

Eradicating Edna<\/strong> is an unfinished novel dedicated to all whose \u201cinner critic\u201d is a bitch.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Prologue<\/h2>\n

Just so no one mistakes the Book Description for the book itself! The chapters are waaaaaay down there. I seriously thought about quitting. Then I recaptured the true spirit of NaNoWriMo. I remembered what it was all about: to write a truly hideous novel of 50,000 words in 30 days.<\/p>\n

“Nobody said nothin’ about ‘publishable.’ Nobody ever suggested that a 30-day novel should be ‘great lit-rah-chure’ (Gesundheit!)” my Muse snickered. “What was I thinking, to put such expectations on myself at a time like this, when all the world’s gone mad around me?” I cried, throwing a forearm dramatically over my forehead and letting out a piteous wail.<\/p>\n

“That’s the spirit.” My Inner Editor foamed at the mouth. Only, the foam came out the bitch’s nose, since my Muse had had the foresight to bind up her mouth with duct tape.<\/p>\n

“Look, you’re an overachiever, but you’re a burnt-out overachiever seriously in danger of looking like she’s got a bug up her ass. So write this one just for fun. And if you must compete, consider it your entry into the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest next year.” The Muse shrugged.<\/p>\n

“That’s just supposed to be one sentence,” I said. I was pouting. I had my heart set on writing great lit-rah-chure.<\/p>\n

“So write a novel that gives you nothing but hard choices as to which sentence you should enter.”<\/p>\n

“There are multiple categories,” I said, warming to the idea. “I could have ’em all covered, by the time I’m done.”<\/p>\n

“There you go. Enter in every category. Just be sure to win a ‘Dishonorable Mention’ for me.”<\/p>\n

“I’ll do it!” I sprang to my feet, energized. It took less than a NaNoSecond for reality to sink in. “Oh, God, I’m so far behind. All I have so far is three death scenes and an aborted suicide.” You can imagine the withering look my Muse gave me.<\/p>\n

“I know that, Dear. It’s pretty fucking pathetic, if you ask me.” She picked up my daughter’s TI-83 calculator and pushed some buttons at random. “Don’t think of it as ‘behind.’ Think of it as an adjustment, from 1667 words a day to 2800 words a day. You can do that, can’t you? I mean…if you’re enjoying yourself.”<\/p>\n

“Can I use this conversation?” I asked. I was reluctant to admit it; it seemed so…puerile. But I was beginning to enjoy myself. Guilty pleasures are always the best kind.<\/p>\n

“No.”<\/p>\n

“Will you take that thing away?” I asked, pointing at the Inner Editor. The IE growled and struggled against the ropes that bound her to her ergonomicallycorrect office chair. Gleefully, I smacked her over the head with an ergonomic keyboard, breaking the device in two. I dumped it into her lap.<\/p>\n

“Absolutely.” My Muse poured two glasses of cheap cream sherry and we raised them in a toast. “To fingering Bulwer-Lytton’s proboscis in April!”<\/p>\n

“Here, here.”<\/p>\n

“Isn’t that ‘hear, hear’?” squeaked the Inner Editor, who had managed to bite through the duct tape with her jagged fangs.<\/p>\n

“Good God. Does ‘anal-retentive’ have a hyphen?” sneered my Muse. Grabbing She-Who-Inspires-Writers-to-Write-Heinous-Scenes-of-Gruesome-Torture by the neck, my Muse saluted me and disappeared. The Evil One vanished, too, and I could breathe again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chapter 1: Novel Ideas<\/h2>\n

Rayne twirled her shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair around her little finger. It was a bad habit she acquired in third grade, like picking her nose. At 32, Rayne owned her own company, and was adept at multitasking. She could twirl hair with her pinkie and pick her nose with the index finger of the same hand. But Rayne, ever the overachiever, was depressed. No one, not even the Vice President in Charge of Spurious and Covert Operations, also known as her husband, gave a crap that she wore a lemon silk blouse with freshwater pearl buttons and a soft, form-fitting cashmere skirt in blue, green, and yellow plaid. The plumbing in the men\u2019s room was stopped up again, and Bob hadn\u2019t even paused to appreciate the glassy sheen and utter absence of flyaways in Rayne\u2019s Sun-Kissed Topaz hair. She wasn\u2019t sure he\u2019d even noticed the fact that it was no longer Honey-Roasted Blonde. Instead, he inspected the plunger for cracks and barged into the lavatory like a crusading knight. \u201cRayne, where are the urinal cakes?\u201d Rayne looked up from the counter, startled. \u201cThe what?\u201d Bob poked his head out of the men\u2019s room. \u201cThe urinal cakes. Loo lozenges. The blue things you said looked like hockey pucks?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh. I put them with the sticks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe sticks?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe hockey sticks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, in the garage, with the kids\u2019 hockey sticks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRayne.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m kidding. They\u2019re on the shelf in the utility closet.\u201d Rayne sighed. \u201cStinky things.\u201d Rayne looked down at her skirt and plucked a bit of lint from it.<\/p>\n

It didn’t look anything like an authentic Scottish kilt. In a nod to passing fashion trends that should be allowed to pass in silence, it had one of those oversized safety-pins borrowed from vintage diapers. The likeness made Rayne a little wistful as she listened to her biological clock going “tick tick tick tick tick” – not the steady, rhythmic ticking of her grandmother’s wall clock, but the rapid, frenetic ticking of the Lorus quartz Micky Mouse watch she wore on her wrist. Rayne and Bob had no children; that was Bob\u2019s tip-off that his wife was teasing him about the pisser pucks being stored next to the kids\u2019 hockey sticks. The subtle jab wasn\u2019t entirely lost on him. He would have liked a son, or a daughter, for that matter, with whom he could play a game of street hockey. Rayne wasn\u2019t the sort of woman a man could take into the street with a stick and suggest they knock a puck around. He made short work of the clogged toilet and mopped up the cracked tile floor. Rayne was right about the urinal cakes; Bob wasn\u2019t sure which was stinkier: the cakes or the scent they were supposed to mask. But he dutifully left one in each urinal and hoped they\u2019d do the job. Rayne was out front, making coffee. It was nearly 6:30 AM and time to open the shop. \u201cHerbie\u2019s late,\u201d complained Rayne. \u201cHe\u2019ll be here. He always is.\u201d And, as if on cue, Herbie pulled the white Breemer\u2019s Bakery delivery van to the curb with a screech. He dove into the back and came out loaded with boxes of hot, fresh cinnamon buns. Bob held the front door open for him while he hustled his wares into the Novel Ideas Coffee Shoppe. Rayne had hated the name and found the spelling of \u201cshoppe\u201d particularly annoying. But she had liked the quaint little coffee shop and assumed that changing the name would be no problem. She went out on a limb and signed the loan papers, then the contract, putting the caf\u00e9 in her name. But when she found out what it would cost to change the signage, she began to hyperventilate. \u201cShoppe\u201d it was, and \u201cShoppe\u201d it would remain until the mortgage was paid off.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks, Herbie. Mmmm, these smell wonderful!\u201d Rayne poured herself a cup of freshly-brewed coffee, then reached into the top box and pulled out a cinnamon bun. \u201cEating up all your profits again, Rayne?\u201d asked Bob. He reached into the box and got his hand slapped. \u201cTesting the batch to be sure it\u2019s good enough for our customers, dearest.\u201d Rayne tore her bun in two and gave half to her husband. Herbie grinned. \u201cIs there anything else I can get for you, ma\u2019am?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I think that\u2019ll do it, Herbie. Thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you, ma\u2019am.\u201d Herbie didn\u2019t budge. Rayne savored the taste of cinnamon and strong coffee. A little too strong, perhaps. Rayne added some cream and looked around for the coffee stirrers. All she could find was a plastic spork, so she swizzled the cream around with that. \u201cMa\u2019am?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Herbie?\u201d Bob stepped around to the back of the counter and opened the cash register drawer. \u201cI think he wants to be paid, sweetness.\u201d Rayne blushed. \u201cOoops. Of course. I\u2019m sorry, Herbie. The vanilla and cinnamon must have gone to my head. What was I thinking?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow much?\u201d asked Bob. \u201cSixty-two fifty,\u201d said Herbie. \u201cHere you go.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks. See you tomorrow!\u201d Herbie left in a hurry, eager to make his remaining deliveries while the goods were still hot. Just then, Rayne screamed. \u201cWhat?\u201d cried Bob, startled. Rayne pointed at the floor, near the bakery case. There stood a tiny brown and white field mouse, quivering in fear at the hysterical woman. Bob tried hard not to laugh, and managed to stifle himself until the mouse sneezed. At that, he could hold it no longer, and let loose with a cross between a snort and a guffaw. \u201cYou scream like a girl,\u201d he said, laughing. \u201cIt\u2019s not funny!\u201d Rayne stared in horror at the frightened rodent. Bob grabbed a small plastic cannister and quickly clapped it over the mouse. \u201cWhat are you planning to do with it, now?\u201d Rayne cringed. \u201cI thought I\u2019d keep it as a pet. Maybe make it the store mascot. Put it in the window, on display\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re fired!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t fire your own husband,\u201d said Bob, smirking. \u201cOh, the hell I can\u2019t!\u201d Rayne burst into tears. \u201cHoney, it\u2019s just a mouse.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, it\u2019s not just a mouse. It\u2019s everything\u2014\u201d Rayne\u2019s tears turned to sobs. The mouse was forgotten as Bob slipped his strong arm around her heaving shoulders. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I\u2019m so sorry. It\u2019s just\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just your first week as owner of this caf\u00e9. Give yourself time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut we haven\u2019t had one customer, Bob. Not one. We\u2019re losing money faster than Imelda Marcos buys shoes\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t Imelda dead?\u201d Rayne sobbed louder. \u201cI\u2019m kidding! She\u2019s not dead, and her shoes are just fine. You worry too much, sweetie. About everything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you don\u2019t worry enough! How are we going to survive if we don\u2019t start bringing in some business?\u201d Rayne looked around frantically, the panic making her eyes shine. \u201cOkay. You mind the store while I run out and drum up some business. But there\u2019s a catch,\u201d Bob added.<\/p>\n

\u201cA catch?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbsolutely.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want sex for every ten customers you bring in?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, but that\u2019s beside the point. I want a new title: Vice President of Marketing. And I want benefits.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you want to be V.P. of Marketing and you want sex for every ten customers you bring in?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEvery five.\u201d Rayne\u2019s jaw dropped. \u201cEvery–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s non-negotiable.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFine.\u201d Bob went to the back room and made up a sign. An old-fashioned sandwich board, really. On one side, he drew a steaming mug of coffee, a book, and a pen and wrote Caffeine for the Creative Genius in You. On the other side, he wrote Got Cinnamon Buns? To this, he added curved lines suggestive of a naughty play on words. He attached the boards with towing strap and slipped the straps over his shoulders. \u201cTwenty customers by noon, and you get to clean the men\u2019s room tomorrow.\u201d Bob winked at Rayne and went outside to pace up and down Grantler Avenue. Bob was not a tall man; he stood just barely five feet, six inches tall. He wore size thirteen shoes, extra wide. It gave him a clownish appearance, despite his serious gray eyes and sensual mouth. Women were attracted to him, probably because of the racy myths surrounding men with large feet, and he enjoyed the attention. They loved to run their fingers through his blue-black hair. But he had not ever considered being unfaithful to Rayne. Until right at this moment. As Bob paced the street in front of the Novel Ideas Coffee Shoppe, a young woman wearing skin-tight leather jeans and a loose-fitting pirate shirt approached. She had short-cropped auburn hair, the color of a dull copper penny minted in 1929. She bit her lip as if uncertain whether to ask him the question that weighed heavily on her mind. \u201cWhy in the hell would a grown man wear a sandwich board?\u201d To keep himself out of trouble, thought Bob. The ache in his groin subsided as quickly as it came. \u201cIt\u2019s my wife\u2019s shop. I\u2019m helping out,\u201d he explained pointlessly. The girl rolled her eyes and walked towards the university on State Street. Bob watched her gently swaying derriere as it receded into the distance, then snapped his fingers. \u201cThat\u2019s it!\u201d he said, pleased with himself for remembering. \u201cThe university!\u201d Bob pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called his wife. \u201cI\u2019m heading over to State Street,\u201d he said. \u201cOh, is that where the hookers hang out?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, but they\u2019re surly this morning. I thought I\u2019d go after some unsuspecting undergrads and convince them your coffee\u2019s even better than sex.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood plan. Maybe they\u2019ll drag their professors along while they try to kiss up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen I suggest pushing the cinnamon buns. Hard.\u201d Bob hung up. He stood in front of his alma mater wearing a black muscle shirt, denim jeans, and a sandwich board, and tried to push back the mortified humiliation that threatened to engulf him. \u201cBob Slackard, is that you?\u201d An elderly, pasty-faced man with a beer gut peered skeptically over black plastic frames that held his Coke-bottle lenses up in front of his presbyopic eyes. Bob whirled to face the man head on. \u201cOh, Christ,\u201d he mumbled. His stomach clenched. It wasn\u2019t because of the jalapeno pizza he and Rayne had shared the night before. That particular pain in the gut had already passed. \u201cProfessor Pearson, how nice to see you again,\u201d he said, feigning genuine affection for the old geezer. Pearson had made his senior year at Flayemall University a living hell, and he would gladly have dropped a live mouse down the front of the man\u2019s trousers right now.<\/p>\n

The thought made him giggle. \u201cSlackard, are you on drugs?\u201d asked Pearson. \u201cWhat? Oh, no,\u201d Bob assured the professor, choking back the laughter. \u201cJust had a funny thought.\u201d He grinned. \u201cI see. What\u2019s this you have here?\u201d asked Pearson, poking a bony finger at the sign Bob wore on his chest. \u201cIt\u2019s my wife\u2019s coffee shop,\u201d Bob explained, pleased to note that the words came out with some small measure of pride. He did admire his wife\u2019s gumption in opening a business, even if it virtually sealed their fate and guaranteed they\u2019d be working until the day they died to pay off the debts. He hoped that it did not turn out to be one of those expensive but essentially useless hobbies some wives took up, like having acrylic nails applied twice a week. If Rayne took up having her nails done like that, Bob would suspect she was having an affair. She surely knew, after ten years of marriage, that he never noticed things like fingernails on a woman. A man could only take in so much, and his eyes naturally gravitated towards boobs and butts. It was that simple, really. Rayne should know that. And so, Rayne had opened a coffee shop, instead. Bob was proud of his wife. And glad she wasn\u2019t having an affair. \u201cSo, Slackard, you\u2019ve become a human billboard?\u201d Professor Pearson chuckled mirthlessly. \u201cI should\u2019ve expected as much. I knew when you took my course on Rhetoric you\u2019d never amount to much.\u201d Bob bristled at the slight, but smiled gamely. Little did Pearson know that Bob was working on a novel in his spare time. And Bob had an epiphany, standing there on the sidewalk, exchanging unpleasantries with the man: Pearson\u2019s voice sounded just like Bob\u2019s inner critic. Bob\u2019s smile turned wicked as he imagined writing Pearson into the novel, only to kill him off in imaginatively gruesome ways. Yes, ways – plural. He wondered if he could work a zombie into the story, just to have the opportunity to do him in more than once.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you like coffee, Professor?\u201d Laced with arsenic, Bob silently added. \u201cThe shop\u2019s just around the corner.\u201d Pearson looked at his watch. \u201cI suppose I do have time for a cup,\u201d he conceded reluctantly. The man was obviously a pathetic charity case, but Pearson did like coffee and a few dollars wouldn\u2019t make much of a dent in his wallet. He was tenured, after all. When they arrived at Novel Ideas, Bob saw that Rayne had been making the place eclectically cozy again, propping a plastic yard penguin outside the door to welcome guests, much the way an old General Store used a wooden Indian. It was meant to be charming and whimsical, but Bob felt his cheeks redden as he imagined what the Professor was thinking. \u201cDressed a bit formally for this joint, aren\u2019t you, old chap?\u201d Pearson chuckled at his own jest and strode into the caf\u00e9, leaving Bob to follow, open-mouthed, in his wake. Rayne was chatting with a duck. A six-foot tall duck. \u201cAflac,\u201d quacked the duck. \u201cYou want it black?\u201d asked Rayne, handing the duck a cup of coffee. \u201cAflac!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDamned insurance salesmen!\u201d cried Pearson. He grabbed the duck by the wing and ushered it unceremoniously through the door and knocked it flat on its tailfeathers to the pavement outside. \u201cThat was a customer, for God\u2019s sake!\u201d yelled Rayne. \u201cWho do you think you are?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMadam, I am a customer,\u201d said Pearson. \u201cForgive me if I was being rude, but I didn\u2019t realize you served duck in this establishment.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll serve anyone who can pay,\u201d said Rayne, her hands firmly planted on her hips. Pearson pulled a ten out of his wallet and ordered a cinnamon bun and a large coffee. \u201cPerhaps it will sweeten my disposition, and make me more palatable to my students,\u201d he remarked with a wink.<\/p>\n

Rayne rolled her eyes at Bob. The Aflac duck was still sitting on the sidewalk, trying to catch its breath. A couple of college students walked in. Bob heard the tinkling of a bell, and turned to see a red-ribboned Feng Shui bell suspended over the door. Rayne was getting superstitious in her old age. \u201cCan I get a Chai tea latte?\u201d asked a diminutive girl with an oversized attitude wearing a fake nosering. \u201cAnd a zucchini-melon scone,\u201d added her companion, an androgynous beauty wearing futuristic, paramilitary garb and carrying a toy light saber clipped to her belt. She had smoky, almond-shaped eyes and a green-and-silver tattoo that looked like printed circuit board above her left eyebrow. \u201cSorry, this isn\u2019t that place,\u201d sighed Rayne. \u201cAll we\u2019ve got, at the moment, is Sumatra or Columbian and freshly-baked cinnamon rolls.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, dear,\u201d moaned the first girl. \u201cI simply cannot eat cinnamon. Do you realize it\u2019s harvested in third world countries by girls as young as five, making as little as three cents a day? How anyone could eat cinnamon is beyond me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cC\u2019mon, Sylvie, let\u2019s go,\u201d said Space Girl. Pearson smirked as he doctored his coffee. \u201cYou see what I have to work with? Day in, day out. All cut from the same cloth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you stand it?\u201d asked Rayne, smoothing her skirt demurely. \u201cOh, my dear, I have tenure. And I\u2019m only two years from retirement. I can stand damned near anything, except the likes of him.\u201d Pearson pointed at Bob. \u201cExcuse me?\u201d Rayne bristled. \u201cThat\u2019s my husband you\u2019re pointing to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRayne\u2014\u201d Bob was uncomfortable with the conversation shifting in his direction. He was not eager to hear the Professor\u2019s explanation. \u201cOh, yes. You see, he\u2019s got potential. These children are simply arrogant, pretentious, lazy, ignorant poseurs. Your husband could\u2019ve made something of himself, had he chosen a respectable career in writing. Something solid and staid, like technical writing. His grasp of the English language is flawless, my dear.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bob was stunned. Though he made it sound like an insult, this was the closest Pearson had ever come to offering him a compliment. It wasn\u2019t much, but Bob\u2019s breath caught in his throat at the magnitude of what he was hearing. The Professor held up a finger to shush him, and turned back to Rayne. \u201cUnfortunately, your man is given to flights of fancy. Fancies himself a novelist, that is. Wants to write Literature. Wants to use his imagination.\u201d Pearson spat out the word imagination as if it were spoiled fish. \u201cWhat the hell is wrong with that?\u201d Bob demanded to know. \u201cYou were teaching Creative Writing, for Christ\u2019s sake. Weren\u2019t we supposed to exercise our imaginations?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, surely you jest, man. You want to end up like me, teaching Creative Writing to a bunch of babbling idiots who don\u2019t know their colons from their own bowels?\u201d Pearson gulped his coffee, forgetting how hot it still was. He burned his tongue and it made his temper even more fiery. \u201cYou were a fool, Slackard. A damned dreaming fool. You could\u2019ve made a good living, writing, but no\u2014 No, not you. You didn\u2019t want to \u2018sell out\u2019 to the corporation!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the hell are you going on about, man? You convinced me I had no talent! I switched majors. Went into Accounting, for God\u2019s sake. Worked in a corporation for fifteen years! I loathe Accounting, but you – you -\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, don\u2019t have a stroke, Slackard. I was just disappointed, that\u2019s all. You could have been great. You could have written something like Programming the DRM V in Your Sleep, but no! You wanted to write a novel. The guy who came up with the \u2018\u2014in Your Sleep\u2019 series? He\u2019s a multimillionaire!\u201d Pearson looked as if he were the one about to suffer apoplexy. \u201cDon\u2019t you have a class to tortur–I mean, teach?\u201d Bob regarded his former teacher with a mixture of contempt and rage. Even so, he felt the block loosening. His fingers itched to get back to the writing. \u201cI coulda been a contendah!\u201d quipped Bob, the minute Pearson left the shop. He shook his head and smiled sadly at Rayne. \u201cIt bothers you, doesn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat you\u2019re not published.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHell no. It bothers me that I can\u2019t write anything I\u2019d want to buy if it were published.\u201d Bob looked around the little coffee shop with an appraising eye. \u201cYou know, we should expand this place.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you mad?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout what? No, I mean, are you crazy? Have you lost your mind? We\u2019ve only been open a week. We\u2019ve had four customers–no, scratch that, we\u2019ve had one customer–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you trying to get out of our deal?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, but it doesn\u2019t count when one\u2019s thrown out on his tail-feathers and two leave because we don\u2019t serve goat\u2019s milk and veggie croissants.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cChai tea lattes and zucchini-melon muffins.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever.\u201d Rayne slumped in her chair behind the counter. \u201cDon\u2019t you have some advertising to do, or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI hate it when you\u2019re petulant.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not petulant,\u201d said Rayne with a sigh. \u201cI\u2019m pouty.\u201d She stuck out her lower lip, cocked her head to the side, and tucked her chin down. \u201cWell, that\u2019s altogether different. You\u2019re kind of cute when you pout.\u201d Bob slipped behind the counter and kissed Rayne. His lips were warm and comforting. \u201cThat\u2019s nice.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI brought in a customer.\u201d Bob winked at his wife. \u201cBring in four more.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a hard task-master, lady.\u201d Bob realized he was still wearing his sandwich board. No wonder his attempts at seduction were falling flat. Dejected but determined, he headed back out towards State Street. The university was a bustling place; all Bob had to do was point the students in the right direction, and Rayne would have all the business she could handle. Bob found himself thinking ahead to a time when she would have to hire help. He wondered if she\u2019d hire some gorgeous college athlete. They\u2019d work sideby-side, day in, day out. Would Rayne begin to compare him unfavorably to the younger man? Bob shook off the anxiety and laughed at his own foolishness. But the image stayed in his mind longer than he would have liked. \u201cHey, pops, what you sellin\u2019?\u201d asked a kid carrying a backpack so large it looked suitable for an expedition to Tibet. \u201cGreat coffee. Cinnamon rolls that\u2019ll knock your socks off.\u201d Bob looked down. The lad wasn\u2019t wearing socks. \u201cOh,\u201d he said. \u201cI see you\u2019ve already tried them.\u201d The boy laughed. \u201cSounds good, but I have to get to class. Maybe later, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d Bob continued to stroll down the street in front of the campus. A campus cop pulled over to the curb and motioned that he\u2019d like a little chat. \u201cHey, buddy, they don\u2019t allow soliciting here in front of the school.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought this was a public sidewalk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust move along,\u201d said the cop. \u201cHey, Officer,\u201d said Bob, \u201chow about stopping by for coffee and a cinnamon bun later?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, sure. That\u2019d be okay, I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBring your buddies.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll see what I can do. New business?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOpen a week.\u201d Bob leaned over and said softly, \u201cWe could really use your help. We\u2019ve only had one customer, so far.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour old lady\u2019s runnin\u2019 the place, isn\u2019t she?\u201d Bob looked at the cop, stunned. \u201cHow\u2019d you know that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy else would a man be out here walking the streets wearing that?\u201d The cop laughed and gave a low whistle. \u201cI\u2019ll bet she promised you sex if you brought in enough business.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you–er, no–I mean, how do you–\u201d Bob stammered and felt his face grow hot under the cop\u2019s laughing eye. \u201cYeah,\u201d he finally admitted. \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d asked the cop. Bob worried that trading sexual favors for business might be a crime, even if the other party was your wife. \u201cJake,\u201d he lied. \u201cWhat\u2019s it gonna take to make your night, Jake?\u201d Bob considered. \u201cYou have ten friends?\u201d he asked, his voice full of hope. \u201cI have a whole police force.\u201d<\/p>\n

Chapter 2: Not a Muse-d<\/h2>\n

Bob smiled as he slipped out of the sandwich board. \u201cNever did like this vest much, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood man. Shift\u2019s over at two.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m counting on you, Officer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll be there.\u201d Bob walked back to the coffee shop. It felt almost like cheating, but he whistled as he walked. There was a spring in his step that hadn\u2019t been there earlier. \u201cAny luck?\u201d Rayne called out, as the door swung open with a peal of tiny bells. \u201cNaaah. Cops told me to move along. No soliciting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not right! It\u2019s a free country!\u201d Rayne was indignant. \u201cHad any customers since I left?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNope, not a one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sure?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLoverboy, much as I\u2019d love to come from behind this counter and jump your bones, it wouldn\u2019t be right. I\u2019ve just been sitting here listening to the cinnamon buns.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cListening to the–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re getting stale. They\u2019re whining \u2018eat me\u2014eat me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBe strong. You never give in to me when I whine.\u201d Rayne threw a crumpled napkin at her husband. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you work on that novel of yours?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause I don\u2019t have any characters whining \u2018eat me\u2014eat me!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey might, if you started paying more attention to them.\u201d Rayne winked. \u201cGo on. I think I can handle the customers.\u201d Rayne looked down at her fingernails and considered giving herself a manicure to pass the time. Bob grabbed his laptop from the back room, and plugged it in. He settled into a comfy armchair and began to cogitate. The harder he thought, the fewer ideas occurred to him. \u201cHey.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey.\u201d Bob looked up from the laptop. \u201cHey! Your hair\u2019s on fire!\u201d He started to jump up from his chair, but she pushed him back into it. \u201cLady, your hair is on fire!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s always like this, Bob.\u201d She laughed. Bob looked around frantically. Some crazy woman had set her hair on fire. With a little bad luck, she\u2019d take Rayne\u2019s shop with her – probably burning Rayne and Bob in the process. And yet, she was alarmingly calm about her flaming hair. Where the hell was Rayne? \u201cRelax, Bob. She can\u2019t see or hear me. Only you can.\u201d The woman was insane. Either that, or Bob was insane. Had to be one or the other, he mused. Had to be. And that\u2019s when he noticed that the hot-headed, almond-eyed stranger was a cross between Angelina Jolie and Pele, Goddess of Fire, dressed in a sleek black, skin-tight, flame-retardant bodysuit. Bob couldn\u2019t help but lick his lips. She was the woman of his adolescent fantasies. She laughed. Bob concluded that he was the one losing his marbles. The woman didn\u2019t exist. \u201cDamn,\u201d he muttered. \u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know who I am!\u201d said the woman, laughing. \u201cI\u2019m your so-called Muse. I\u2019ve been looking over your shoulder since you were fourteen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve been what?\u201d Bob looked up in horror. When he was fourteen, he\u2019d figured out an easy way to forestall the urges that threatened to overcome him each time he laid eyes on a girl. It was a solitary pleasure, one he knew better than to do where others could watch. The thought of this creature looking over his shoulder\u2014\u201d He shuddered.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Christ, Bob. I\u2019m talking about your writing, idiot.\u201d She ruffled his hair. Bob groaned. She may not have watched over his shoulder constantly, but she could read his mind. That was just as bad. \u201cYou created me, remember?\u201d Her voice sounded smooth as silk and burned like whiskey. Bob felt dizzy. Bob vaguely remembered doodling sketches of this woman – his supposed Muse on his History spiral back in high school. Implausibly large boobs, curvaceous hips, a dancer\u2019s legs, stiletto heels but he couldn\u2019t, for the life of him, remember flames for hair. Took some getting used to, but the warmth her tresses gave off was helping to dispel the tremors in his hands. \u201cBob, you\u2019re shaking like you\u2019ve got the DTs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m, um, wow. Yeah. Yeah,\u201d Bob looked stupidly at his hands. The tremors spread up his shoulders and down his spine. He was ice-cold, and yet his skin burned. \u201cBob, get a grip.\u201d Bob did just that. He gripped the armrests of the chair in which he was sitting. He gripped the faux hide of nauga until his knuckles turned a ghastly shade of white. \u201cCould you – not – do that?\u201d he asked, prying one hand loose long enough to point at the Muse\u2019s hair. \u201cWhatever floats your boat, Bob.\u201d Suddenly, an auburn-haired Angelina Jolie sat in the chair opposite Bob, and looked far less threatening than the incandescent goddess who\u2019d stood before him a moment earlier. \u201cIs this better?\u201d Bob nodded. \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d It felt bizarre, having a conversation with what had to be a hallucination, albeit a gorgeous one. \u201cFred.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFred?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou named me Fred, Bob. It\u2019s not my job to explain why you named me Fred.\u201d Given the thoughts Bob was having about the illusory Fred, this was disconcerting news, to say the least. He scratched his head, trying to remember why in the name of God he would have named this woman \u201cFred.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFrederica?\u201d he asked, voice full of hope. \u201cNo, Bob. Fred. Just plain Fred.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry. You don\u2019t look like a Fred.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNever did, Bob.\u201d Bob cringed. \u201cAnd I was fourteen, you say?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right, Bob. Fourteen.\u201d Fred shook her head and looked down at her well-endowed chest. \u201cGads, I wish you\u2019d learned to write when you were ten, or waited until you were twenty-something.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t that obvious?\u201d Fred hefted her breasts with both hands. \u201cOnly a fourteen year-old boy would endow his Muse with such gifts.\u201d Fred\u2019s hair burst into flame, sending Bob burrowing deeper into his armchair. \u201cI\u2019m sorry?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I can see that you\u2019re not,\u201d said Fred, her hair still smoldering. \u201cSo let\u2019s cut the crap, Bob. You have a novel to write.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou see the problem with being a Muse created by a fourteen-year-old boy? It\u2019s distracting, Bob. It\u2019s keeping me from being all I\u2019m meant to be.\u201d Fred looked mildly annoyed, but at least her hair didn\u2019t burst into flames. Bob was relieved. \u201cI see.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you don\u2019t see. You\u2019re just all fascinated because you can actually see me, and I look like some prepubescent fantasy doll!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no – I understand how that could be a hindrance. I\u2019m sorry. I – I think I\u2019ve matured since then.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo you haven\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHave to!\u201d Bob was not about to sit here and be insulted by his own Muse. \u201cWhy, I–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBob, get real. That deal you made with the cops, earlier? That was real mature.\u201d Fred rolled her eyes. \u201cOh, Rayne\u2019s a good sport, she\u2019ll–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBob, do you have any idea how many guys are on the force? Rayne won\u2019t be able to walk for a week if she makes good on her end of the deal.\u201d Bob snickered. Fred\u2019s hair began to crackle and spark. He quickly tried to look contrite. \u201cSir? Sir!\u201d Bob woke with a start. A little old lady was leaning over him, smelling of lavender and potato chips. \u201cWha–?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour laptop\u2019s about to slip off your lap. I think you dozed off. Didn\u2019t want it to fall on the floor, you know.\u201d Bob grabbed his laptop computer just in time to save it sliding off his thighs and onto the ceramic tile floor, where it would surely have broken into tiny bits. Although that might have saved Bob considerable trouble, it was an expensive toy he could hardly afford to replace, given his and Rayne\u2019s recently precarious financial position. \u201cThank you,\u201d he murmured. \u201cVery kind of you.\u201d He blinked a few times and rubbed the sleep sand from his eyes with his knuckles. \u201cNo problem, son. No problem at all. Say, I couldn\u2019t help but wonder what you were working on that put you so soundly to sleep. I suffer insomnia, you see. I\u2019d love to learn your secret.\u201d The old biddy chuckled. Bob yawned. With his hands firmly grasping his prized possession, Bob was unable to stifle himself. His mouth opened wide. The only difference between Bob and a yawning cat was the cat\u2019s needle-sharp fangs. And claws. And tail. But the yawn was similar, and from the look on the old lady\u2019s face, she was a cat fancier. \u201cSorry. I was working on my, er, book. I\u2019m a writer. Sort of a writer. I\u2019m working on a novel. In my spare time, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAhhh. Yes, a writer. How nice for you, dear. And what do you do with the rest of your time?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI, uh, my wife and I, we run this shop.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLooks to me like she\u2019s doing all the running. I\u2019m Edna, by the way. And you would be\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBob. Very nice to meet you, Edna.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally? That\u2019s a first. Most people aren\u2019t pleased. Not pleased at all.\u201d Edna sat down in the chair across from Bob, a chair warmed, just moments before, by the enigmatic Fred. \u201cI can\u2019t imagine that, Edna. You seem like such a kind soul.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot at all, Bob,\u201d said Edna. Her expression hardened as she pulled out her knitting. Her fingers moved deftly as the needles clicked and clacked. Knit and perl, perl and knit\u2014Edna seemed hell-bent to burn her name into the Guinness Book of World Records by knitting what appeared to be a dingy gray and red woolen scarf in under three point two seconds. \u201cWhy\u2019s that, Edna?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you recognize me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShould I?\u201d Bob squinted to get a better look at Edna. Five foot two, maybe one hundred thirty pounds, Edna looked like somebody\u2019s grandmother. A third grade teacher, perhaps, with her tightly-curled indigo hair. Bob had never understood why elderly schoolmarms insisted on dying perfectly good white or gray hair a hideous shade of blue that never would have occurred to Mother Nature to create from scratch. That\u2019s it! Third grade teacher\u2014 Of course! Edna must have been one of Bob\u2019s teachers. \u201cOh, worse than that, Bob,\u201d said Edna, as if reading his mind. \u201cYour third grade teacher was a dear, sweet old woman. She didn\u2019t have the heart to give you the D you deserved on that science report, so she gave you a C and package of crayons to soften the blow.\u201d Bob swallowed hard. \u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEdna Jacobi Pringleheimer-Smith. I\u2019m your worst nightmare,\u201d hissed Edna. Her eyes were dark and beady, but they smoldered with hate. \u201cI\u2019m your inner critic, Bob. I am a part of you.\u201d Bob suddenly had an urge to hum, but he felt his blood run cold. \u201cCan Rayne see you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOnly if I want her to, Bob. You wouldn\u2019t like that, would you? You\u2019d like for her to think that you were a capable, talented man\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI suppose,\u201d said Bob, trying to stifle another yawn. \u201cWhat the hell is that?\u201d Bob reached for the woolen scarf that was growing, in faster, tighter rows. \u201cIt\u2019s an afghan, Bob.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt looks like–oh, Good Christ, woman! That\u2019s my third-grade report card.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTsk, tsk. Says here you got a big fat F in English. Bob, English is your native language. You\u2019d have to be dumb as a rock to flunk English.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMrs. Denhameyer didn\u2019t like me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t like you? Didn\u2019t like you? What sort of asinine excuse is that, Bob? Ranks right up there with \u2018my mother beat me and my father drank,\u2019 in my opinion. Cut the crap.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s true! She hated me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo one hates a third grader, Bob. You\u2019re delusional, to boot. But never mind that. Why aren\u2019t you working on that stupid novel of yours? I mean, it\u2019s not like you\u2019re helping your wife out, there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Chapter 3: May the Force be with You<\/h2>\n

\u201cBob?\u201d Bob jumped at the sound of Rayne\u2019s voice. He looked over at Edna, but all he saw was an empty chair, a crumpled package of Marlboros, and a red pen. He could still hear her mirthless laughter crackling in his eardrums. Instinctively, he stuck his pinky in his ear and jiggled it around, as if to dislodge something unpleasant. \u201cYes, dear?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you think maybe you could lend me a hand, here?\u201d Novel Ideas was bustling with customers wearing dark blue uniforms. Bob put his laptop on the floor, tucking it out of sight beneath the chair, so it wouldn\u2019t get stolen. He burst out laughing as he looked around the room. It looked like the entire police force had turned out for the grand opening of Rayne\u2019s coffee shop, making it highly unlikely that anyone would attempt to boost a laptop. \u201cJake!\u201d One of the officers strode over and clapped Bob on the shoulder. It took Bob a minute to adjust to being called Jake; he had forgotten this morning\u2019s fib. \u201cHey there, Officer–er,\u201d Bob looked down at the officer\u2019s nameplate. \u201cAl.\u201d He smiled. \u201cGood to see you here!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you\u2019re a reasonable sort, Jake. Most guys would\u2019ve given me a load o\u2019 crap about their First Amendment rights, free country, capitalism, God, and apple pie. You?\u201d Officer Al leaned over and whispered conspiratorially in Bob\u2019s ear, \u201cYou just wanted to get laid. Couldn\u2019t stand to turn my back on a fellow in need.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBob? Are you coming?\u201d Rayne was swamped with orders and having a hard time keeping them straight. She couldn\u2019t pull three double-shot lattes out of the espresso machine, four cups of \u201cregular joe,\u201d two mocha javas, dish up sixteen cinnamon rolls, and work the cash register simultaneously. She was good at multitasking, but it would\u2019ve taken conjoined twins with nine tentacles to keep up. \u201cBob?\u201d Officer Al repeated quizzically. \u201cDid she just call you Bob?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPet name,\u201d explained Bob, rolling his eyes. \u201cAhhh, gotcha.\u201d Officer Al nodded in understanding and grinned knowingly. \u201cComing, sweetie poo.\u201d To Officer Al, he said, \u201cAre you married?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYep. Nine years, three days, twenty–\u201d The cop looked at his watch. \u201c–three hours, six minutes, fifty-seven seconds.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWow, that\u2019s amazing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe never lets me forget.\u201d Officer Bob smiled. \u201cWhich reminds me, Jake, I have to run – I promised her I\u2019d bring at least three bad guys to justice before the day was out. I\u2019m still down by one.\u201d Bob laughed. \u201cWant me to run out and commit a crime so you can collar me?\u201d Officer Al thought it over for a long, uncomfortable moment. Bob began to wish he hadn\u2019t said it, and wondered if lying about one\u2019s name to a police officer could be considered a \u201ccrime.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d said Officer Al. \u201cThanks anyway. I\u2019d better be going. Coffee\u2019s great!\u201d He waved at Rayne, who was doing her level best to juggle orders. Sotto voce, he added, \u201cHave a good night, Bob.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks. Er–\u201d Officer Al laughed and pushed his way through the door, out of the warm light of the caf\u00e9 and into the blackness of the night. He straightened his back and steeled his nerves; he was off to fight bad guys. The rest of the force was still squabbling over the last of the cinnamon rolls. Apparently, there weren\u2019t enough to go around. Bob rounded the counter and got to work. With Rayne on the espresso machine, Bob could handle both the cash register and the cinnamon rolls. Not well, of course – the cash register keys were getting really sticky. Now and then, two numbers would stick together, resulting in prices like $12.50 instead of $1.25. But the room was so full of boisterous bonhomie that nobody seemed to notice. Sticky-Fingers Bob (as he would later be called) raked in about $235 in undocumented profits that would never be reported to the IRS, and he did it right under the noses – and straight out of the pockets – of Amitydale\u2019s finest.<\/p>\n

Chapter 4: Out of the Doghouse and Into the Fire<\/h2>\n

\u201cReady to call it a night, Tiger?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRowwwwr.\u201d Rayne slipped her arm around Bob\u2019s middle-aged middle and laid her head on his shoulder. \u201cI\u2019m pooped, Loverboy. Who\u2019d have expected the entire police force to show up at my caf\u00e9, and all on the same night? Did you put out flyers, or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOr something.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHmm. And how the hell did they know about our dog?\u201d asked Rayne. She finished wiping down the counters and washing the espresso maker. \u201cOur dog?\u201d Bob inquired, flipping off the light in the back room. He was eager to get home and collect his winnings. \u201cYep. Jake. Several of the Officers were asking about him. For some reason, they seemed to think he had a lady friend.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA lady friend?\u201d asked Bob. The warning bells were going off in his head, but not nearly loud enough. He was still a little foggy after his encounters with Fred and Edna. \u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey seemed to think Jake was going to get lucky tonight.\u201d Bob hopped into the car. Rayne drove. She loved to drive. Would have made a hell of a NASCAR driver, too. \u201cOh, they did, did they?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFunniest thing, Bob. One of them–what was his name? Al. Al told me Jake sent him here. Why would Jake do that, Bob?\u201d Rayne pressed harder on the gas. \u201cWhoa! Slow down! He told you–I mean, he must be mistaken. Must be some other Jake.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think so, Bob. I\u2019m going to have to have a talk with that dog when we get home.\u201d Rayne smiled as she took a turn at forty-two miles an hour. In one perfectly-timed maneuver, Rayne rolled up the driveway, opened the garage door, and pulled the car inside, gliding to a stop just short of the tennis ball hanging from the ceiling by a length of twine. \u201cPerhaps you should speak with him, Bob. I\u2019m a little too\u2011\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPissed off?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, Bob. Humiliated.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShould I take a sleeping bag and make him scoot over?\u201d asked Bob, dejected and contrite. \u201cOh, hell no. You owe me one passion-filled night of ecstasy after all that. When I get done with you, you\u2019ll be walking with a limp.\u201d Rayne grabbed her husband\u2019s tie and tugged him toward her. \u201cBut if you ever pull a stunt like that again\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNever.\u201d Rayne liked to work out her frustrations, anger, and irritations in bed. She was an energetic and enthusiastic lover who eventually mellowed and softened as the physical exertion left her warm and spent. Bob wondered, if he ever really pissed her off, would he have to install a trapeze? As they lay together after their lovemaking, basking in the radiant heat that rose from their slightly damp skin, Bob ran a hand along Rayne\u2019s long, luscious body. Her muscles rippled like the flanks of a high-strung mare after a good run. \u201cI love you, wife.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI love you, too.\u201d Rayne rolled over. Within minutes, her breathing was regular and deep. Her gentle, rhythmic snorts were too quiet and quirky to be anything but amusing, and Bob couldn\u2019t help chuckling to himself. He pulled a pair of earplugs from the nightstand drawer and shoved them into his ears with a smile. Bob was awakened by an insistent tugging on the blankets. \u201cC\u2019mon, sleepyhead!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAgain? So soon? I thought you were–oh, holy shit!\u201d Fred was standing over the bed, tongues of flame leaping from her head. Panic-stricken, but quite sure he was not yet fully awake, Bob swatted tiny, glowing embers as they fell onto the blanket. \u201cWould you stop that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you sleeping? It\u2019s only eleven.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you know smoking\u2019s bad for you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere there\u2019s smoke–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c–there\u2019s fire. Yeah. Tell me about it. You really ought to do something about that, Fred.\u201d Fred merely shrugged. Apparently, her head was made of asbestos, too. Bob wondered if a figment of his imagination could be really dangerous. \u201cYou don\u2019t want to find that out the hard way,\u201d Fred warned him. \u201cI wish you wouldn\u2019t read my mind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat good would I be as your Muse, if I couldn\u2019t read your mind?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you were supposed to inspire me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow can I do that, if I don\u2019t know what floats your boat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow should I know? Why don\u2019t you just go away and let me sleep?\u201d asked Bob. He was tired. Fred was getting on his nerves. He wasn\u2019t so much frightened, anymore, as annoyed. \u201cGet up out of that bed and write.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I won\u2019t.\u201d Bob laid down and rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head. Maybe Fred was the result of one too many cinnamon rolls, or too much caffeine. He made a mental note not to eat up the profits at Novel Ideas. The pillow was forcefully yanked from his clenched fists. Fred was furious. It occurred to Bob that if she could tug on the blanket and yank the pillow from his hands, she could burn down the house in her ire. He sat up, reluctantly, and gave her his full attention. \u201cOkay, fine. But just for an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFine.\u201d Bob got out of bed carefully, so as not to wake Rayne. He let Fred lead the way to his office, her hair illuminating the darkness. Bob sat down in his recliner and fired up the laptop. He sighed. \u201cYou\u2019re a hard taskmaster.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fred sat at Bob\u2019s desk and fiddled with the pencils in his pencil cup. She opened his desk drawers and rifled through them. \u201cPackrat,\u201d she muttered. \u201cFind anything \u2018inspirational\u2019 in there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot really. What\u2019s this?\u201d Fred held up a slide rule. Bob patiently explained how to use it. Fred looked bored. \u201cWhat happened to you, Bob? You used to be a doodler, a dreamer, a writer. Now you\u2019re what? An accountant?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBusiness manager.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOH, right. Helping the wife get her little coffee shop off the ground. My God, Bob, you\u2019ve become a clich\u00e9. Not just a writer who hangs out in caf\u00e9s, but part owner of one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s nice, don\u2019t you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBob. You were supposed to write. Instead, you let–that creature turn you to the dark side.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCreature? Are you talking about my wife? Because if you are–\u201d Bob felt his face flush, anger causing the bile to rise in his throat. His fists clenched over the keyboard. \u201cNo, Bob, not Rayne. There\u2019s nothing wrong with the little woman. In fact, she can be downright inspirational.\u201d Fred winked. Bob wondered if she\u2019d been watching. \u201cThen what are you going on about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat bitch, Edna.\u201d Fred played with a mechanical pencil, clicking the lead out bit by bit until it fell to the floor. She peered through the clear barrel and shook it to see how many leads remained. She tossed it onto Bob\u2019s desk. \u201cOh, right. I met her today.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou met her in third grade. And fifth. And your Freshman year in high school. Do you remember Mrs. Needlemeier?\u201d Bob snickered. He began to mimic the prim and prissy Needlemeier, his Freshman Comp teacher. \u201cInsert a comma where you would naturally pause to take a breath. Not you, Slackard – that tip doesn\u2019t work for asthmatics! You have to learn the rules of grammar the hard way. You\u2019ll never be a writer. But take heart, society will always need more trash collectors.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe did not say that!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStreet sweepers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAccountants.\u201d Bob could see where this was going. \u201cAnd you just rolled over and followed orders. I cannot believe the boy who blew spit wads at Needlemeier would grow up to take her awful advice! Why, Bob?\u201d Bob shrugged. \u201cBecause he knew, deep in his heart, that I was right.\u201d Bob groaned and rubbed his burning eyes. \u201cOh, for fuck\u2019s sake. Ladies, I need sleep. I\u2019m going to leave you to discuss me in my absence.\u201d He shut off the laptop, bowed deeply, and left Fred and Edna glaring at each other. Bob massaged his temples as he felt his way along the wall and back to bed. He would have to see a psychiatrist, and soon. As Bob pulled the covers over his body, he heard a lamp crash to the floor. Edna let loose a \u201cWell, I never!\u201d while Fred retorted \u201cAnd you never will, either, you old hag!\u201d Bob fell asleep with a small upward curl of his lips. They were fighting. Over him.<\/p>\n

Chapter 5: Need a Vacation<\/h2>\n

\u201cRayne?\u201d It was five o\u2019clock in the morning. Rayne flopped over at the sound of Bob\u2019s voice and opened one eye. It was an expressive eye. It was a \u201cwhy the hell are you waking me up at this ungodly hour of the morning?\u201d eye. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been thinking.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. You?\u201d The eye rolled up towards the headboard and squinched tight. \u201cOkay, I\u2019ll bite, what have you been thinking?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI need a vacation.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need a–what?\u201d Bob had her full attention now. Rayne\u2019s eyes popped open and her mouth, already open, stayed that way. \u201cDon\u2019t joke. You know we can\u2019t go anywhere right now, not with the store open less than a month.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t say \u2018we.\u2019\u201d Bob scooted towards his edge of the bed, instinctively. Rayne did not look happy to hear his thoughts. \u201cOh, so you need a vacation, and you\u2019re just going to pack up and go, leaving me to run the store alone?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBusiness is picking up. You could hire some help.\u201d Rayne nodded. \u201cI could. But that still doesn\u2019t make it right.\u201d She stuck out her lower lip. \u201cWhy now? Why do you need to get away? Is it me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, God, no. No, Rayne. It\u2019s me. I–I need to write. And to do that, I need to get away from here for a little while.\u201d What Bob didn\u2019t mention to Rayne was that, the morning after the feud between Fred and Edna, he had awakened to find a solitary, round-trip plane ticket on his desk. To Istanbul. Courtesy of Fred. He had studied the ticket for a long time, certain it was a yet another sign of growing madness. Then, just to be sure, he had shown it to a woman at the bank where he made the deposits for Novel Ideas. Instead of telling him that the emperor had no clothes, as he\u2019d expected her to do, she expressed her delight and wished him a wonderful trip. The ticket, it seemed, was real enough. \u201cWhere do you plan to go?\u201d asked Rayne. Bob told her about the ticket, but claimed that he had bought it himself. \u201cBob, that\u2019s more than we\u2019ve taken in all month, even with brisk business.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought I was supposed to worry about the finances.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not doing your job, then.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo fire me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that what this is about, Bob? It was your idea to put the store in my name\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRayne, I am still–and always will be–your adoring love slave and business manager. Right now, though, I need to do this.\u201d He surprised himself with his own resolve. He would not back down or give in to allay her disappointment. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Sweetheart. I can see you\u2019re not keen on the idea, but I really need to get away, to write this book. To see if I can–to prove to myself that I can do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou wrote a book.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, yes\u2014 Basic Accounting Principles for Complete Morons. That was big.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStop it. It was a high school textbook, and as I recall, it was very well received.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBy the teachers, sure. They welcome anything that acts as a sedative on their students. Much less trouble that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBob.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGo to Istanbul. But stop putting yourself down. I can\u2019t stand that.\u201d Rayne rolled over and slid out of bed, naked. Everything about the way she walked to the bathroom was suggestive; Rayne wanted to be sure Bob knew what he\u2019d be missing in Istanbul.<\/p>\n

Chapter 6: Now Hiring<\/h2>\n

Rayne sat at the back of the caf\u00e9 with her sister, Storme. Storme had pale skin and a talent for sitting still as death. It amused her to no end that she was often mistaken for a department store mannequin. She managed it, not through the use of arsenic wafers (those were hard to come by, nowadays), but by slathering on SPF 45 sunblock and going to excessive lengths to avoid the sun\u2019s harmful rays. Short-cropped, blue-black tresses and too-heavy eye makeup provided a startling contrast to accentuate the pallor. Storme wore a colorful skirt, pieced together from vintage t-shirts; it was so short it made Rayne blush to look at it. A skin-tight black tank top and denim jacket completed the outfit. \u201cCan I take the night shift?\u201d she asked. \u201cThat might not be such a good idea, Storme. Don\u2019t you have schoolwork to do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m off for the summer.\u201d Rayne studied her sister closely for a moment as she spoke. \u201cOh, man\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that a tongue stud?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis?\u201d Storme stuck out her tongue. It was studded with a bright, neon-green ball. Rayne turned her head to the side and closed her eyes. \u201cOw, ow, ow!\u201d Storme just laughed. \u201cWhat? It didn\u2019t hurt.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019d mom say?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe doesn\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow could she not know? Can\u2019t she see it when you talk?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe never pays any attention to me when I talk. You should know that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan you take it out?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can, but why would I want to?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you\u2019re going to work here–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, not you, too.\u201d Storm leaned back and frowned at her sister. \u201cLook, I thought you needed the help. But if you can\u2019t deal with who I am\u2014 if you\u2019re just out to change me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, honey, it\u2019s not that. It might, you know, bother some of the customers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRayne, get real. We\u2019re next door to the university. Who\u2019s it going to bother? The faculty have their own lounge. They get all the free coffee they can handle, even if it is swill. They\u2019re cheap. Your customers are going to be students. Compared to most of them, this is nothing.\u201d As if to prove her point, Storme stuck out her bejewelled tongue and waggled it around with glee.<\/p>\n

Chapter 7: An Interesting Mix<\/h2>\n

Rayne rolled her eyes. Storme had a point. The students wouldn\u2019t care; if anything, it might convince them that Novel Ideas was a young, hip sort of place where they, and all their youthful eccentricities were welcome. The cops wouldn\u2019t care, and they were a fun, loyal bunch of customers by now. Their presence made the older patrons feel safe. It\u2019s all good, thought Rayne, borrowing an expression from her little sister. \u201cOkay, the job\u2019s yours if you want it.\u201d Storme grinned. \u201cWhen do I start?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight now.\u201d Rayne pushed her chair back from the little round table and nodded towards the counter. \u201cI\u2019ll show you the ropes.\u201d Storme was, thankfully, a quick learner. She\u2019d never done well in school, but that was due largely to boredom. She read incessantly, devouring Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, de Maupassant, and Aristotle with ease. She could count change as quickly as the automatic register could calculate it. One wouldn\u2019t know it to look at her, but Storme was an energetic worker. When there was nothing to do, she affected a bored and sullen expression, but she had a real affinity for the customers and they appreciated her attention. She remembered names and faces and orders with 99.9% accuracy, a skill Rayne envied.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Bob threw some things into his suitcase, willy nilly. He had never been much of a traveler, and he suddenly realized that Rayne usually did all the packing for the few vacations they\u2019d taken together. A man should know how to pack his own things, he thought. He turned the suitcase over onto the bed and started over. \u201cNeed help with that?\u201d asked Rayne. If there was any hint of resentment in her voice, she hid it well. Now that Storme had started working in the caf\u00e9, she seemed content to let Bob go off and \u201cfind himself,\u201d as she put it. Consciously or unconsciously, everything she did seemed calculated to prove that she could get along just fine without him. Bob knew his wife well enough to know, intellectually, that it was her way of alleviating the guilt she knew nagged at him. But he also knew she wouldn\u2019t object to knowing he felt a little hurt that she could get along so well without him for a few weeks. Rayne picked up one of Bob\u2019s shirts and began to fold it. He watched carefully, then took it from her silently and laid it in the suitcase. \u201cIf you really don\u2019t want me to go–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be silly. You said you needed to do this, and I\u2019m not about to stand in your way.\u201d Rayne began to fold Bob\u2019s underwear, to roll and tuck his socks. He took them from her and threw them into the suitcase. \u201cStop.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I need to do this, too.\u201d He nodded at the clothes strewn across the bed and waved a hand over the half-empty suitcase. \u201cFine.\u201d Rayne tossed the last sock-roll onto the bed and stood up, clearly stung by her husband\u2019s lack of need. \u201cRayne?\u201d Bob stood up and encircled his wife\u2019s waist with his arms. \u201cI love you. I always have, and I always will. I love it that you want to take care of me. You do it so well, I\u2019ve come to depend on it. But when a man realizes he no longer remembers how to pack his own things for a trip, he–\u201d Rayne nodded. There were tears in her eyes, but she leaned in and kissed her husband. Slowly. Deeply. Her tongue teased his, inviting it to dance, then darting away coyly. He pulled her body tight against his and held her there, inhaling the shower-moist, energizing, citrusy scent of her. \u201cI get it,\u201d she said, pulling away. \u201cAnd I\u2019m sure they sell toothpaste in Istanbul, if you forget yours.\u201d Rayne winked at Bob and went off to dry her hair and get ready to open the store. A few hours later, Bob arrived at President Whackenbush International Airport and Sundries. He wondered what sundries were. Something to do with Homeland Security, perhaps. Tearing things asunder. He had forgotten most of his seventh grade Latin, but convinced himself that sund was a common root word. The thought of it made him a little nervous.<\/p>\n

His taxi driver was a tiny, dark man from Bangalore named Sanjay, according to the airport license dangling from the car\u2019s air conditioning knob. Sanjay, who was hardly as big as Bob\u2019s suitcase, struggled to carry the bags to the curbside check-in counter. Bob tipped him generously; unsure whether ten or thirty percent was customary, he split the difference. He suspected that he had over-tipped when the little man clasped the bills between his palms, as if in prayer, then bowed deeply, thanking him in several languages and calling him Sahib. Check-in went smoothly. Bob produced his passport at the baggage counter, twice at the security screening, and once to a lady who was cleaning the restrooms. She spoke no English, but she gave Bob a suspicious look that made him wonder if she, too, worked for Homeland Security. He convinced himself that the urinal cakes were bugged and rigged with tiny, waterproof cameras. That notion also made him somewhat self-conscious, but he desperately had to relieve himself and decided that nervousness might be mistaken for terroristic intent, so gamely he stood and did his business. By the time he reached the gate, Bob was flashing his ID at anyone who looked willing to take a peek. He found an empty chair in the waiting room and occupied it. According to his watch, which was not as nice as a Rolex but had served him quite well for the last ten years, it was one hour, twenty-two minutes, and fifteen seconds before take-off. A woman wearing sharply-creased khakis, hiking boots, and a photo-safari jacket over a lime-green silk turtleneck sweater caught his eye. A large, padded bag camera bag hung over her shoulder. She had the most stunning auburn hair. It was radiant. It looked as if it might burst into flame at the touch of the sun\u2019s rays\u2014 \u201cOh, shit.\u201d Bob turned away and pretended to be fascinated by the planes taxiing in and out of the nearby gates. No luck; she spotted him and miraculously found an open seat beside him. \u201cYou didn\u2019t think I\u2019d abandoned you, I hope?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbandoned me?\u201d he hissed. \u201cI wish you\u2019d–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDear me, you shouldn\u2019t have come.\u201d The elderly lady on the other side of Bob was having some difficulty arranging her bags. Bob turned to help her, and found himself staring straight into the mocking gray eyes of Edna Jacobi Pringleheimer Smith. He sighed. \u201cI don\u2019t think I can take the both of you on this trip.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEdna,\u201d growled Fred, \u201cyou\u2019re the one who\u2019s not supposed to be here. And if you don\u2019t shut your trap, you hateful old biddy, I\u2019m going to chuck you into the Bosporus myself!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s no way to talk to an old woman,\u201d said Bob, trying to keep the two from going at it in public. Suddenly, he realized that the only one of the three of them visible in public was him. Talking to himself. Any minute, those nice young men in their clean white coats would show up with handcuffs and a strait jacket to haul him away to Amitydale Serene Sanitarium, more commonly referred to as the ASS Hole. The trip to Istanbul would be off, but so would the next several months – if not years – of his life. Considering how they treated drug addicts and alcoholics, taking away their toys, he shuddered to think what they would do to a crazy writer. They\u2019d break his laptop, chew on his pencils, maybe even amputate his fingers. He closed his mouth and bit his tongue. \u201cBob,\u201d said Edna, waggling a bony finger right under his nose, \u201cyou have an overactive imagination. They don\u2019t do things like that, these days. They\u2019d just give you some mind-numbing concoction of chemicals and send you home to your lovely wife, where you belong. Within forty-eight hours, you\u2019ll be good as new and ready to tackle the ledgers you\u2019ve been so shamefully neglecting.\u201d Edna pulled some knitting from her bag and settled back to wait for the flight to begin boarding.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe<\/em> can read my mind, too<\/em>?\u201d asked Bob. He shrank back in his chair and looked around the waiting area. No one seemed to be paying undue attention to him, for which he was inordinately grateful.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Eradicating Edna is an unfinished novel dedicated to all whose \u201cinner critic\u201d is a bitch.   Prologue Just so no one mistakes the Book Description for the book itself! The chapters are waaaaaay down there. I seriously thought about quitting. Then I recaptured the true spirit of NaNoWriMo. I remembered what it was all about: […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":137990308,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_has_post_settings":[],"wds_primary_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2748,7],"tags":[],"hashtags":[],"class_list":["post-431303","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-humor","category-writing"],"publishpress_future_action":{"enabled":false,"date":"2026-04-25 05:16:26","action":"change-status","newStatus":"draft","terms":[],"taxonomy":"category","extraData":[]},"publishpress_future_workflow_manual_trigger":{"enabledWorkflows":[]},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/431303","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=431303"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/431303\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":137989700,"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/431303\/revisions\/137989700"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/137990308"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=431303"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=431303"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=431303"},{"taxonomy":"hashtags","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/hashtags?post=431303"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}