- Serious Musician
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- Gender: Male
here is a link:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FBPDPLG/re ... Will+to+Be
and here are the blurbs on the intro page:
The New York Times: “The Will to Be is the last word on gender identity in the 21st century!!”
The Will to Be is Oprah’s pick for July 2018’s Book of the Month!!
Reese Witherspoon recommends The Will to Be as a great summer beach read for twenty-somethings on a search for cultural truth!!
Nicole Kidman claims The Will to Be helped her see through the clouds of middle-age personhood!!
Vanity Fair: “The Will to Be is an emotional fire-blanket for those full of uncertainty in the age of Trump!!”
These are reviews that will never appear on the jacket or intro for this book. The Will to Be is about the aftermath of a catastrophic event in late seventies Tucson, Az. How it affects those involved and causes them to either re-evaluate their lives or find confirmation in the paths they’re already on.
My wife: “Does such a good story need all that sex?”
Me: “Honey, the answer’s in your question.”
That’s the best recommendation this book can offer. I hope you like it.
July 7th 2018
and here's the first chapter...
The Will to Be
Tucson, Az December 1978
A full moon hovered in her rearview. It was the sickly pink of a cauterized wound. Linda Paloma blinkered and pulled into the Santa Sierra Trailer Court. Boxy singlewides were lined up in precise formation like coffins bound for home and flag in back of a cargo plane. Small Christmas trees could be seen in the windows of a few trailers. A chain link fence that wouldn’t secure a petting zoo ran around the court.
Linda reached between her legs, took one last swig of tepid McDonald’s coffee and parked by a silver 10x40 Airstream. She sat for a moment and rubbed her left calf. Her breath steamed the windshield and her mind began to monologue.
“I’ll catch fuckin’ Xahuitle Gomez one o’ these days. Or I’ll chase down one of his scorpions and flip them. If I don’t, how will that fool Thigpen get another picture in the Daily Star and the damned Republic? How did I end up with that “Hey Kool-Aid!!” moron for a partner? He couldn’t outrun Ruth Gordon. Have another cruller, Thig, Mayor Monday needs your Flour Power dollars for his campaign. I’ll say one thing for Mr. Mayor, he knows business. He’s got Flour Powers outside cop shops in Phoenix, Tucson and Yuma. Now he’s got one outside our BP house. Gawd, Thig’s porked up at least twenty since it opened in April…
I foot chase that muchacho a hundred fuckin’ yards, tackle him and gouge my calf on a rock. Thig comes puffing up and cuffs the guy while a Star reporter snaps a pic. Thig gets the write up, the plaque and the raise. I get my chops busted for needing a sick day to see about my calf.”
Linda got out of her Border Patrol jeep, locked and shut the door, then walked the red paver pathway to her trailer. She fumbled for her keys while continuing her grump-a-logue. ”…Christ, it’s warmer out here than in the jeep. When’re they gonna get that heater core fixed? After sundown my nipples become pink witch’s hats. Thigpen keeps one eye on his pastry and one on my tits…
Ehh, whatmIcomplainin’ about Mayor Monday for? His son’s a nice guy, if a bit spoiled n pansied. Kind of a thrill seeker, too. Rapeling down the Grand Canyon…what a twister-fuck that ended up being for his dad. Hadda call in a mountain o’ favors to keep him outta jail. Skydiving. No way in hell am I doing that with him, I don’t care how often he asks. Overheard him on the phone bragging about the ultimate dangergasm. Who knows what that could be? Can’t be too exciting at the lame ass location he was whisperin’ about. A bored, rich man-boy. Good company, though…”
She stood on the small, red paver patio, unlocked the door and stepped up into the trailer. She flipped the switch to the right of the door and was greeted by the life she was wasting her life to earn. A thin brown carpet, a carnival-colored afghan lying on a sagging sofa like a death sheet. A dusty Zenith on two wooden crates. She’d varnished the crates with golden oak stain for that rustic look. A suitcase phonograph on a small roll top desk flanked by a couple of K-Tel albums. BM brown wall phone by a tiny, phlegm yellow stove with two dead burners. Whipping up anything other than instant coffee was a calculus problem. A small fridge full of diet soda, Swanson dinners, cold cuts, mustard and a bottle of Tickle Pink for her nights off. Fuck that fancy five dollar a jug Sangria her mom guzzles. Tick does the trick, just like when she was a cherry seventeen on the water tower with Jim Chism. Ok, fine…fifteen. Haha, I called him Chim Jism after that night with the Thai stick. He sure…I can’t believe I left that Redbook open to that article! If mom’d come in here snooping I’d’ve never heard the finale. ‘Bone Dry…the over fifty guide to sex’. It was all for you, Mom! You can still be fulfilled at fifty-six…you just hafta get…filthy. Then maybe Dad wouldn’t be drinking a twelve of Meisterbrau every day and Ernest and Julio Gallo wouldn’t be running out of damn Sangria. Like Dr. Joyce Brothers says, ‘it’s not frustration, it’s lustration…’”
The wind kicked up outside and dumped Mr. Phillips’ metal trash can over. Linda dropped her McD’s cup in the garbage, put the oven on “bake”, cranked the temp to 450 and tossed in a meatloaf dinner. She set the stove timer , turned on the TV, grabbed a Diet Rite and plopped down to watch Charlie’s Angels.
“Why does Bosley hafta look like a doughy meter reader? Couldn’t they cast a guy in his twenties who could do a pull up…? It’d sure be nice if Reggie came by tonight. I hope I wasn’t too forward giving him a key. His muff eating grin didn’t seem to think so. Says he’s got some business to tend to tonight, though. Probably at some dull, after dark board meeting getting reamed by his dad for having no ambition. That’s ok. After my King’s buffet I’ll drag out my notes and do a little more thinking on Gomez’s new coyote route. If that doesn’t put me to sleep, it’s a Sominex washed down with a swig or two of Tick. Several wets I’ve interrogated claim border crossers on foot have been disappearing. Not many, but enough to get a few rumors started. Some say it’s dumb ass redneck vigilantes. Mike Riordan is a BB brain with lotsa mouth and money but he wouldn’t kill illegal aliens. Even if he wanted to, he knows he’d get life if he was caught. His angle is mostly politics. Could be one of his dipshit supporters. What really vexed my gall was that dumb snatch from channel 9 suggesting it’s a zealot Border Patrol agent…”
Linda sat passively and forked her meat loaf dinner, mopping up the surprisingly tasty sauce with one her mom’s homemade tortillas. Cheryl Ladd karate chopped a bad guy while showing a lotta cleavage. Nothin’ for the ladies, though. Bosley looks like Billy Carter’s dentist…his mole really puts a bow on the whole package…damn, I sure wish Reggie’d put in an appearance…”
She watched a little local news(the anchors were a knock-out Chiquita and a Fudd gringo. What a shock), then she shut off the tube, watched the picture fade to a small blue dot and disappear.” Life in a nutshell, Linda. A sloooow blue faaaade.” She popped her pill, took a long belt of Pink from the fridge and walked into her 8x10 bedroom. She laid her service weapon on the nightstand by her yard sale lamp. The moon was silver now and its light leaked around her old, bent Venetian blinds like mercury. She undressed by the quicksilver moonlight, leaving off the lamp. She hung her uniform over the handlebars of her K-Mart exer-cycle.
“That damned seat is hard and pointy and feels like that time my ex tried to…gotta remember to stop by U-Totem in the morning for a map of the desert. I don’t know where my other one went. I asked Thig about it but he swore he didn’t know. He probably wiped his greasy hands on it and tossed it when he picked me up the other day. The fat fuck.
Yup, a visit from Reggie would be reeaal nice. I don’t even mind that yarmulke hairpiece he wears. So he’s got a bald spot? It kinda came loose when I was grabbin’ his head last week. You’d think a guy with his cabbage could afford a rug that wasn’t glued on with Fixodent. Oh well, que sera…and be honest before you meet the Sandman, Linda…you were fourteen years old.”
Linda pulled back the covers on her double bed and climbed in. The sheets were cool and felt good on her skin. She was mildly buzzed from the Sominex and Pink. She thought she heard a muscle car pull into the trailer park and a door slam. Naah…couldn’t be. Her door knob jiggled, there were footsteps and a man’s silhouette stood in her doorway. A sultry whisper…”Linda, you awake…?”
“I am now. Climb in…”
“Just a sec…”
The silhouette retreated from the doorway and fussed in the living room. The needle dropped on a scratchy record and Lou Rawls’ voice penetrated her bedroom. Boots hit the floor and pants were unbuckled. Jesus, she was already dripping like a rainforest. He slid in beside her and they began to French like teenagers…
The moon was higher now and no longer squeezing through Linda’s blinds. Her trailer was dark and she was snoring softly. Her clock was set for five AM. A small gust of wind blew through the trailer court and rattled old Mrs. Perkins’ awning. The shadow froze. Its eyes had adjusted to the dark and were able to make out Linda’s shape beneath the covers. Nice figure. For sure. The shadow raised the forty-five and pointed it at Linda’s chest. A damn shame to defile those tits. Suddenly Linda rolled to her side and reached for her nightstand. She grabbed something, pointed it at the shadow and pfft, pfft, pfft, pfft. Linda jerked four times and lay still. Her right hand clutched something long and tipped. The shadow leaned over for a closer look, chuckled softly and left the bedroom. It locked the front door, shut it quietly and jumped the Trailer Court fence.
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