As many of you know, I have a novel coming out in October. And as much as I hate using my blog to plug my own books (why are you laughing?), my publicist says doing so is essential for generating buzz and getting people excited to read the book.
My publicist says a big part of that is sharing excerpts from the actual book—even if the excerpts are controversial and dangerous. (Hang on, my publicist is shaking her head and whispering something to me. …) Oh, sorry … especially if the excerpts are controversial and dangerous.
Who am I to argue with her? Following are two snippets from In Wolves’ Clothing—a novel about a guy named Zero Slade who travels the world posing as a pedophile in order to rescue victims of child sex trafficking.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
(From Chapter Two)
Guadalajara.
The guys and I ogle the dozen or so pre-teen prostitutes being led into our villa by three slim, scowling men. Each of the men is wearing a different soccer jersey that looks the same. Each of the girls is wearing whatever discount-rack party dress the pimps forced them into. The room smells like Drakkar Noir and sweat mixed with Cotton Candy and fear. Some of the girls look at us and try to smile. The rest of them probably aren’t aware we exist.
We offer the girls some sodas as they plop onto couches and chairs in the huge open living room. Barrett says something silly in broken Spanish and several of the girls giggle. Even one of the pimps is smiling. I pour myself a glass of tequila and wink at a ten-year-old.
The trick to looking excited when children are presented to you for sex is to remember you are saving their lives. If you don’t look excited, the pimps will get suspicious. Show your anger and disgust, and you ruin everything.
I take a sip of tequila and grin at a child and would kill for an oxy. The one I ate an hour ago is losing its luster. But two on the job, that’s a no-no.
For help getting into character, think about the biggest douchebag frat guy you’ve ever met, imagine him with several million dollars, multiply his money and demeanor by ten, and then act like that guy. Right up until the cops remove your handcuffs and thank you.
This mission is a little bigger than the one in Acapulco yesterday, so there are six of us. Barrett, Malik, Drew and I have been joined by Anders and Scott from Seattle, who arrived in Guadalajara two days ago to get everything set up. Anders and Scott look more refreshed than the rest of us right now because they’re not finishing up a doubleheader. None of us at Operation Emancipation like doubleheaders—shooting off to a city to complete a jump immediately after finishing one in the same or similar time zone. Doubleheaders may be practical from a cost and logistics standpoint, but they’re never fun. For one, fitting a second pseudo-designer suit inside a valise is next to impossible. Secondly, if you play a pedophile too often, your face might stay that way. But Fynn makes the schedule, and you don't fuck with Fynn or her schedule.
The guys and I are chatting and laughing with the girls, warming up to them slowly with a “Qué guapa!” here and a “Muy bonita!” there, making sure not to lock eyes or look at their mouths or do anything else that might invite a kiss. If one of the pimps sees any of us rejecting an advance, they’ll know something’s up. Fortunately, these girls, just like all the other girls in all the other cities and countries we work in, almost never make the first move. They may be smiling and giggling, but they’re not. Sadly, their terror works in our favor. They think they’re about to be raped for the tenth or hundredth or thousandth time, so they aren’t in any rush to get things started. They’re waiting on us.
I’m not wearing a watch, what with my wrists still sore from yesterday, but the cops are a little late. We can stall only so long before the pimps will start getting nervous. And you don’t want a nervous pimp. Anders and Scott may have asked them nicely the other day not to bring any weapons to the party, but the thing about pimps is you can’t always trust them to respect house rules. The good news is these three clowns aren’t even paying attention to us. They’re too busy marveling over the size of the place, trying to fathom its value in their heads, wondering what knickknacks they might be able to nab when nobody’s looking. It’s not often they get to see the inside of a house on this side of town. We are in Puerta de Hierro, one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the greater Guadalajara Metropolitan Area. A twenty-minute drive and a million miles away from the pimps’ brothel on Avenida Chapultepec, where Anders and Scott went to arrange this party two days ago.
Another sip of tequila. Less winking and grinning. And we’re running out of stupid, flirtatious phrases to say to the girls. The watch I’m not wearing tells me we should definitely be getting arrested by now. It tells me it’s time for what we at OE call the tourniquet.
“Okay boys, let’s get busy!” I shout with glee at the guys.
You never get used to nearly throwing up in your mouth.
I grab the hand of one of the youngest girls—she’s not a day over nine—and place my other hand on the back of another girl who isn’t much older. Their forced smiles fall to the floor as we head toward the wide granite staircase. The other guys follow my lead, each picking the two girls closest to them and guiding them to the stairs. We look like teachers on a field trip, collectively accounting for all the children in our charge as we tour an historic home. If only it were that simple.
In about a minute, the girls will wonder why we aren’t removing any of our clothing or theirs. Our lack of sexual interest and aggression might even make some of them more uncomfortable than usual. We’ll just tell them we like it slow. What we won’t tell them is we’re here to rescue them. All it takes is one doped-up eleven-year old with a confused allegiance to her pimp to ruin a perfectly planned emancipation.
In this job, you learn to ignore the urge to comfort those you’re protecting.
***
(From Chapter Three)
I can't remember if I took an oxy during the flight, so I eat two. They pair nicely with the scotch.
It’s good to be home.
I should be upstairs sleeping, especially since I didn’t catch a single wink on the flight from Guadalajara. But there’s something I have to finish first.
An eight-letter word for gradually losing one’s edge.
Slipping.
I fill in each box of 27 Down with my black pen and take another sip of scotch. It’s times like these I turn into God. The crossword squares fill up by themselves in a secret blurry code. A few of the answers might even be correct.
The black pleather couch makes love to me as I solve 32 Across.
A four-letter word for spouse.
Neda.
She’s leaning on the banister, wearing a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants that might have fit me when I was ten. Her eyes, almond-shaped during waking hours, are half open.
“You’re home?” she says, pre-dawn gravel in her voice.
“Hi, baby,” I say while trying to conceal the nearly empty lowball glass in my hand. “Sorry to wake you. I’ll be up in a sec.”
Neda yawns and combs her hand through a shining cascade of black hair. “What time d’you get in?”
I scratch my shaved dome, feeling the perspiration forming, and say, “Uh, a little after one maybe.”
Neda opens her eyes the rest of the way. “You’ve been here for nearly two hours? Why didn’t—”
“Baby, I just needed to unwind a bit before bed.”
Neda’s eyes open wider than the manual recommends. “Why must unwinding always involve single malt and a crossword?” she asks. “You know, some men unwind by spooning their beautiful wife. Especially when they haven’t seen her in four days.”
I ponder the answer to 36 Across.
“Zero!” Neda shouts.
The sound knocks the pen from my fingers, and I go, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“And look how that worked out for you,” says Neda. “At least if you’d come up when you got home you wouldn’t be getting yelled at.”
I tell her not to be mad, then get up from the couch as gracefully as a man two drinks and twenty milligrams in can. “I knew if I woke you right when I got home, you’d want to talk about the mission.”
I realize this is not what God would say. I can tell by Neda’s face.
“And would that have been so horrible?” she asks. “Us actually talking? About something other than your dry cleaning and where you’re flying off to next?”
What I want to say is, “Yes.” What I actually say is, “Baby, come on. I don’t want to get into it.”
“I know, I know,” says Neda, pulling on the banister railing like she wants to replace it. “You never want to ‘get into it.’ I stopped asking you to ‘get into it’ a while ago, Zero, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
I tell her let’s talk about it in the morning, and she says we already are. Then she says, “You know what, forget it. Come up whenever. Or pass out on the couch. I don’t really care.”
Neda stomps up the hardwood stairs like gravity has doubled. I inhale in preparation to call out to her, but swallow the words. Neda has stormed off in similar fashion countless times before, but right now I can’t remember the protocol. Leave her alone for a while until she cools off? Go after her immediately and talk her down? Go after her immediately and just hold her? Wait a few minutes and then tear her clothes off?
There’s a good reason why I can’t remember the rules: They keep changing. I’ve tried each of the aforementioned approaches an equal number of times in the past, and was successful with each roughly half the time.
I feel like a bomb defuser who’s received minimal training. Do I snip the red wire first or the green one? Or the yellow one or the blue one? If I choose right, I’ll be a hero, saving the day and winning the heart of the princess. If I choose wrong, I’ll blow the whole goddamn kingdom to bits.
Or at least ruin breakfast.
I go with the red wire and pour another two fingers of scotch. The couch is softer than before, the crossword clues easier. If only the little boxes would stop blurring and bending, I’d be able write my answers inside them instead of somewhere over in the sports section.
The girls. They’re still screaming, only now no sound is coming out of their mouths.
I wonder how many of the girls from the two Mexico missions will stick around their safe houses long enough to be reunited with their family, or at least to learn a trade that doesn’t entail being raped thirty or more times a day. Hopefully more than half of them. Unfortunately, that would be considered a success. If only nine or ten of the girls we liberated in Acapulco and Guadalajara end up running off to find another brothel where they can get their daily fix of the drugs their previous pimp got them hooked on, victory would be ours.
You can imagine what losing looks like in my line of work.
Good thing I don’t lose when I’m two-and-a-half drinks and twenty milligrams in. I’m cozy and invincible. I’m satin wrapped in Kevlar. I’m—
“Zero, what the fuck are you doing?” Neda shouts from the top of the stairs. “Get your ass up here now and hold me!”
Damn it. I knew it was the yellow wire.
Key dates to keep in mind
Sept. 27: Cover reveal! (Hosted by Xpresso Book Tours.) Meet the cover of In Wolves’ Clothing, designed by the artistic geniuses at BeauteBook.
Also on Sept. 27:Pre-order period begins! (For Kindle edition only.) You’ll be able to order IWC for your Kindle and have the ebook automatically delivered to your device when it officially launches in October. NOTE: Everyone who pre-orders the book will receive some mightycool book swag!
Oct. 11 (or Oct. 12):Official launch of IWC! The Kindle and paperback editions will be available on Amazon, and neither your life nor mine will ever be the same again.
(Wolf mask image featured above used with permission from Merimask.)
Behind every good novel is an author who almost died in the process. And behind that author are a slew of people the author couldn’t have lived without.
That’s why the “Acknowledgments” page you see inside books was invented. It gives authors a place to thank everybody involved. Everyone they cursed and screamed and spit at while they were losing their mind trying to finish the damn book.
Since only about ten of you are going to buy my new novel In Wolves’ Clothing when it comes out in early October—and since only three of you ten are going to open and actually read it—I’ve decided to share the Acknowledgments page from the book here on my blog. I want as many people as possible to see what an awesome job I did expressing my humble gratitude.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While it’s my name on the cover of this book, there wouldn’t even be a book were it not for the following people:
My wife, Miranda. Miranda’s humanitarian trip to Cambodia in 2016 is what sparked the idea for this novel. And her innate ability to earn actual money is what enabled me to sit around in my pajamas for a year writing what she sparked. Also, she kept me alive while I was killing myself to meet my editor’s deadline.
My daughter, Leah. Had Leah not made friends with people old enough to drive her around this year, I wouldn’t have completed this book until 2019 or 2020. That said, I regret not having been there more for my daughter. In my defense, she’s embarrassed to be seen with me.
Radd Berrett. Radd is the guy on whom Zero Slade is loosely based. (For those of you who’ve skipped straight to this page without reading the book, Zero Slade is the story’s protagonist. Now go back and read the book.) Radd spent over two years putting his life at risk while traveling the world to help rescue victims of child sex trafficking. He’s both a badass and a sweetheart, and my interviews with him were invaluable. Considering he has the strength to bench-press my entire family, Radd is the last person I’d want to forget to thank.
Suzy Vitello. "If you knew Suzy like I know Suzy ..." Actually, I don’t know Suzy all that well, but she’s buddies with the great Chuck Palahniuk, and Chuck told me Suzy’s the bomb. So when I met her and found out she offered editing services (in addition to being an amazing writer), I hired the hell out of her. Long blurb short, she’s the real reason this novel doesn’t suck. And if you think it does suck, well … blame Suzy.
Graham Toseland. Graham, my proofreader from A Fading Street Publishing Services is why this book reads as cleanly as it does—assuming it reads as cleanly as I think it does. If, by chance, you’ve found any typos or grammatical errors (other than the one’s I intended as an artist who’s above the rules), let’s gang up on Graham and beat his British ass until he’s unconscious and/or issues me a full refund.
Angie McMann. Angie is a fellow writer, a selfless supporter of other writers, and one of the few people who responds promptly to my emails. She kindly offered to proof this book when Graham was finished with it—to make sure he didn’t ruin my American English with any English English corrections.
The Writing Wrong Workshop gang. I was fortunate enough to be selected to participate in a writing workshop led by Chuck Palahniuk this past spring. During the workshop, I got the opportunity to read parts of this novel and get beaten Fight Club-style by Chuck and a group of my talented peers until I made many necessary improvements to the book. (Yeah, I realize I already name-dropped Chuck Palahniuk earlier, but when you get to hang out with Chuck Palahniuk for ten weeks, you’d be an idiot not to name-drop Chuck Palahniuk every chance you get. Chuck Palahniuk might disagree, but that is sooo Chuck Palahniuk.)
Maria Novillo Saravia. I always judge a book by its cover designer, and Maria of BeauteBook is one of the best around. She’s highly creative … and very patient. Not once did she threaten to murder me for all the changes and tweaks I requested throughout the design process.
The Internet. I know, I know, the Internet isn’t a person. I also know many folks no longer capitalize “internet.” But when something does for you what the Internet did for me while writing this novel, hell yeah you thank it, and double hell yeah you give it a large first letter out of respect. Perhaps even ALL CAPS. Thank you, INTERNET, for providing me with instant access to everything I didn’t know but needed to for this novel to seem real. (I’d also like to thank the FBI for not detaining me despite all the creepy Internet searches on child sex trafficking I had to do.)
Mom and Dad. I’d be an even bigger a-hole than I already am if I didn’t thank my parents for the love and support they’ve provided while I’ve thrown my life away on fiction writing. I’m so grateful to them for all the bedtime stories they read to me as a child. They’d read to me every night, no matter how good the cocktail party going on downstairs was. Such devotion instilled in me the passion for words and alcohol one needs to become an author.
You. Yes, you. For knowing how to read. Were it not for people like you, I never would have been inspired to ignore my family and friends for over a year to write this book that mostly only they will buy.
And finally … (Warning: Serious shift in tone ahead) …
The victims of child sex trafficking. Nothing funny to say here. I’d list all the victims by name, but that would be a book in itself—the longest, most heartbreaking one ever written. Also, sadly, it’s impossible to know all the names. So I’ll just say this: I wish there weren’t a reason to write the novel I wrote. But it’s good to know that, thanks to all the amazing women and men dedicated to fighting human trafficking, the novel I wrote may one day be TOTAL fiction.
Stay tuned for the cover reveal for In Wolves’ Clothing. I’ll be unveiling the cover very soon via the blog, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. You know, just like Hemingway used to do. The actual book will be available in early October.(Don’t worry, I’ll remind you.)
In case you missed my post about the making of In Wolves’ Clothing, you can check it out here.
An expert on author platforms recently told me readers love it when writers provide answers to frequently asked questions (FAQs). I’m not usually one to challenge authority, unless I’m conscious, but I’m afraid this expert doesn’t know his ass from a hole in a plot.
Things that are frequently asked are rarely interesting. “Is it hot enough for you?” “How’s the chicken?” “Are you off your meds, Greg?” It’s almost impossible to provide an intriguing response to such common questions. Unless, of course, I’m off my meds.
So, rather than following the aforementioned “expert’s” advice and doing an FAQ post, I’ve decided instead to do an FAQ post. No, I’m not off my meds – the “F” in the latter acronym stands for “Favorite,” not “Frequently.”
Below are some of the best questions interviewers have posed to me during my six years as a published novelist begging to be interviewed.
You write about issues that others would normally tiptoe around. Where does this dark humor come from?
First off, I don't see the point of always tiptoeing around touchy topics. Tiptoeing can cause painful cramping. Sometimes it’s better to dance on top of such topics – just as you would atop the grave of an evil nemesis or a gun lobbyist.
As for where my dark humor comes from, I guess you could say it’s a survival tactic. I don't use dark humor to offend – I use it to defend. Humor is a magnificent weapon, one that, instead of destroying, keeps us from being destroyed. Nietzsche said, "We have art in order to not die of the truth." I feel humor serves the same purpose. In fact, humor – when deftly wielded – is art.
How has your upbringing influenced your writing?
I had a pretty happy childhood, which normally dooms a writing career. But I managed to overcome all the unconditional love and support and still become a tortured writer of twisted tales. That’s not to say my upbringing didn’t help me at all. I was a very talkative kid (surprise!), and when all my family and friends finally got sick and tired of listening to me, I turned to the written word. Nobody can shut you up when you're alone in a room typing... except for my cat, Dingo, who loves to sit on my laptop keyboard right when the prose is flowing.
Is there an underlying message you wish to relay about basic human nature through your characters?
No, I don’t really try to relay any underlying message or universal truth about basic human nature. I don’t pretend to even understand basic human nature – especially after the last election.
With my latest novel, Sick to Death, my intent was solely to spin a captivating and entertaining yarn. To explore what could happen if some terminally ill folks with an otherwise solid moral compass decided dying gave them a license to kill.
I just hope, in writing such a book, the underlying message isn’t that I should be committed to a mental institution.
Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?
Dr. Seuss infected me at a very young age. I blame him. For everything. Especially whenever I receive a royalty check and can’t decide whether to laugh or to cry. Aggravated people often mutter, “Thanks, Obama.” I often mutter, “Thanks, Seuss.”
What do you consider the most challenging part of writing a novel?
The biggest challenge for me is remembering to feed my cats. Also, remembering to kiss my wife and hug my daughter every now and again. What I’m saying is I really get into the writing process. So much so, I often forget about the living process.
Besides writing, what secret skills do you have?
I can’t say I have any secret skills; if I’m good at something, I make sure to tell everyone all about it. I will share one of my more surprising skills, though: Freestyle rapping. You probably wish I were kidding, but I’m not. I suffer from chronic hip-hopilepsy. I contracted it when I was about fourteen. At least I’ve learned to apply it to my writing career. For example, here’s a rap about being an author:
My hopes are set high, my prose I let fly
Don't wanna be a writer who just mostly gets by
I wanna be a writer getting checks that let my
chauffeur and my butler go and get my neckties
I’ll give it my best try, I've authored this rap storm
You might be like, "What's an author doing a rap for?"
I'm hoping it will elevate my authoring platform
I have a couple readers but I need to attract more
Your previous book, The Exit Man, was quite successful. Did you ever fear that Sick to Death would suffer from second novel syndrome?
Not at all, mainly because Sick to Death is my third novel. The reason you didn’t know that is because my first novel was very much a first novel. I did things smart – started with a mediocre book so that all my subsequent ones would seem decent.
In all seriousness, as an author there’s no point in worrying if your latest book will live up to those that preceded it. If you’re writing scared, you’re not “bringing it.” And readers today demand you bring it.
Tell us a bit about your writing habits. (Granted, this isn’t a very intriguing question; however, my response is astonishing.)
I’m kind of like Rain Man with my writing. Every day from 8:30 a.m. till 3:00 p.m., yeah. 8:30 till 3:00, gotta write, yeah.
I’m EXTREMELY fortunate to have a wife who not only allows me to write full-time, she insists on it. When I speak of getting a real job, she beats me. I used to have a real job (a writing job, actually, but not a particularly exciting one), and my wife beat me until I quit and focused entirely on fiction. I’m the luckiest victim of domestic abuse alive. (There’s that dark sense of humor again. #SorryNotSorry.)
If you could choose one character from your latest book to spend a day with, who would it be? And where would you take him/her?
Funny you should ask. Not too long ago I tweeted, “I spend all day with my protagonists, but I wouldn't want to be seen with any of them.” Hmmm, I guess if I had to actually hang out with one of the characters from Sick to Death, I’d choose Gage, the main character – even though this might piss of Jenna, the second most important character in the book and someone you really don’t want to piss off.
I’d probably take Gage out for a couple of drinks, then to a Trump speech and just see what happens. Pretty sure after that, the whole world would know about Gage and my book. Call it a PR stunt. Thank me later.
What would you say is your greatest strength as a writer?
I’d say it’s my ability to bring humor to controversial and dark topics while simultaneously revealing the heart and humanity of my protagonists. I love getting readers to root for a sociopath or a serial killer or just a plain loser, and getting them to laugh and cry while doing it.
What are you working on right now?
A bourbon, neat. Oh, and my fourth novel. It centers around a guy who serves on an elite team that goes undercover across the globe to rescue victims of child sex trafficking.
The story was inspired by a humanitarian trip my wife took to Cambodia in 2015. And while the book is technically a dark comedy, I assure you there is no making light of what the girls who are rescued go through. Instead, the humor comes from how the undercover “pedophiles” cope (and struggle to cope) with the extremely challenging and critical missions they carry out, and the odd role they must play during those missions.
As part of my research, I interviewed a lead member of an actual undercover rescue team. When he found out what kind of writer I was, he said, “I’m glad to hear it. There’s no way one can survive what we do without a dark sense of humor.” I aim for the book to do right by him and all the other people who dedicate their lives to liberating victims of child sex slavery. Without depressing the hell out of everyone who reads it.
If you have a question for me about anything even remotely related to writing life (and death), by all means post it in the comment section below. If I can’t come up with a good response, I’ll have my ghostwriter do so.
Not too long ago, I wrote a piece about my all-time favorite authors of dark comedic fiction. In twelve days, I’ll meet the man who’s number one on that list.
Chuck Palahniuk.
For those unfamiliar with Palahniuk, he wrote Fight Club (yes, it was an amazing novel before it was an amazing movie) as well as Survivor, Choke, Invisible Monsters and numerous other brilliant best-selling books. He’s not only my favorite author of dark humor; he’s my favorite author period. (Well, living author, anyway – it’s hard to compete with dead Russians.)
So, when I read that Chuck was going to be leading a ten-session writing workshop (something authors of his magnitude almost NEVER do), and that only a handful of applicants would be selected to participate, I did what any serious writer and Palahniuk fan would do: I screeched like a schoolgirl. Then I knocked over my wife and daughter en route to my writing nook to get started on my application.
A week later I received an email from the writing institute that’s sponsoring the workshop, letting me know I’d been accepted. The message even included a personal note of praise from Chuck himself about the writing sample I submitted. After reading the email and note six times, I did what any serious writer and Palahniuk fan would do: I soiled myself.
On Monday, February 27, I’ll be flying out to Portland (from my home in Austin) to join fifteen other extremely fortunate writers for the initial session of the Writing Wrong Workshop, where the master of modern trangressive fiction will encourage us to challenge conventional writing rules and, I think, fight each other in underground brawls.
As honored and as thrilled as I am, I do have some concerns. My biggest concern – aside from delayed or cancelled flights causing me to miss any of the workshop sessions – is meeting Chuck… and doing something that causes him to want to fight me in an underground brawl. Few things can ruin a writer’s confidence or career more than getting punched in the face by an author they idolize. Now, some of you may be thinking that blogging about how giddy I am about the workshop would be reason enough for Chuck to want to punch me, but that’s ludicrous. Chuck is never going to read my blog.
To help ensure I don’t do anything to annoy or irk my idol during the workshop, I’ve come up with eight Fight Club-style rules for me to follow:
1) The first rule of Write Club is you do not talk about Write Club. (Except when blogging, or chatting with family and friends, or standing next to a total stranger in the grocery store checkout line, or sitting next to one on a flight to Write Club.)
2) The second rule of Write Club is you do not try to make clever references or allusions to Fight Club (or any other of Chuck’s books) during Write Club. (I did, however, reference the workshop on Twitter two days ago and included in the tweet, “I am Jack’s unbridled anticipation.” Risky, I know, but Chuck himself re-tweeted it, so I think I’m good.)
3) The third rule of Write Club is you do not bring all your copies of Chuck’s books to Write Club for him to sign. (At least not until you see another Write Club participant try it without getting punched.)
4) The fourth rule of Write Club is you do not wear to Write Club any apparel featuring anything related to Chuck or his books. (Nobody likes a teacher’s pet, least of all the teacher – especially when the teacher’s Chuck. So, I’ve agreed to hand over both my Fight Club T-shirt (see image) and my Survivor hoodie to my wife before I head to the airport each week. It’s the only way.)
5) The fifth rule of Write Club is you must correctly pronounce Chuck’s surname every time you say it. (It’s PAULA-nick. NOT pa-LA-nick, which is how 99.9% of people outside of Chuck’s immediate family pronounce it – including me up until I heard him interviewed on NPR a little over a year ago. It was shocking; almost like finding out you’re adopted.)
6) The sixth rule of Write Club is, when Chuck enters the room for the first time, you don’t soil yourself. (I will do my absolute best to respect this rule, but will be wearing an adult diaper to the first session just in case.)
7) The seventh rule of Write Club is, when Chuck rips your writing to shreds, you do not openly sob. (I will do my absolute best to respect this rule, but will bring an extra adult diaper for my tears just in case.)
8) The eighth and final rule of Write Club is do not forget you belong in Write Club. You earned this. You've GOT this. (Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go change my underwear. Again.)
It being the holiday season, I wanted to write a piece that captured the joyous spirit of giving that awakens in everyone this time of year. And I figured what better way to do that than to talk about my favorite serial killer.
Gage Adder – the terminally ill main character in my novel Sick to Death – is likely to be remembered for all the people he assaults and poisons in the book. And that’s a shame because when he’s not busy maiming or killing, he’s somewhat of a saint, carrying out the types of random acts of kindness and generosity this world could use much more of. Take away the vengeful cane beatings and the cyanide, and Gage is pretty much Santa Claus.
The point is, you can learn a lot about kindness from a murderer. Following are a few excerpts from Sick to Death that scream “Christmas Spirit!”
Then it dawned on him. There were ways to be thoughtful and giving without actually having to interact with others. Gage was fully prepared to give niceness a shot, but he wasn’t yet ready to let go of Sartre’s infamous notion that hell is other people. Thus, he spent the remainder of the day being anonymously altruistic.
He used his debit card to add time to six expired parking meters.
He sent an arrangement of roses, hyacinth and ranunculus to Charlene – the receptionist at his office whose husband had recently left her.
He sent two dozen donuts to the staff at FutureBright – a local charity dedicated to empowering at-risk youth – and he donated three hundred dollars to the organization via their website.
He picked up the tab for not one but two tables at the diner where he had lunch, asking the waitress to be discreet about his actions and leaving the establishment before the patrons – five in all – were informed their meals had been paid for. He left the waitress a fifty-percent tip on the total of his and the other two bills.
And for his closing act, he called the pediatric cancer unit at Carrington Medical Center, asked a nurse how many children were currently inpatients, and then ordered forty-three stuffed animals to be delivered to the unit the following day.
***
Two broken ribs for the guy kicking the homeless man in a back alley and bombarding him with racial epithets.
A thousand dollars in a blank envelope for the neighbors whose five-year old daughter’s body was found in a river two states over.
A cracked cranium for the coke-addled brat who plowed his Beemer into six people on a sidewalk but walked due to daddy’s legendary lawyer.
A boatload of books, games and DVDs for everyone in the Pediatric Burn Unit at Pearson Medical Center.
Brutes and creeps kept showing up bleeding and battered at hospitals and urgent care clinics. Needy individuals, families and organizations continued getting pleasant surprises from an anonymous stranger.
When Gage wasn’t knocking a white supremacist’s nose to the side of his face with a cane, he was handing azaleas to an elderly woman in the park. It was as if he had some strange new kind of bipolar disorder, one that caused him to rapid-cycle between breaking bones and bestowing gifts.
***
His most notable act occurred the morning of the tenth day, when he saw a woman sobbing as she walked out of a veterinary clinic holding a dog leash. The look on her face – like her entire family had just been sent to a gas chamber.
Holding the door open for the woman as she exited was an employee of the clinic, a teenage girl who looked almost as despondent as the woman herself.
“Don’t worry about the bill right now, Miss Morris,” said the girl. “Take all the time you need.”
Gage and the girl watched as the woman staggered down the sidewalk, clutching the leash. After the girl closed the door and returned to work, Gage approached the woman. He gently rested his hand on her shoulder.
“Please,” he said, “allow me to get you a taxi, Miss.”
She gave Gage a confused look. “I drove here,” she said, continuing to cry.
“It’s okay. You’re in no condition to drive. I’d like to pay for your taxi home, and I’ll also give you money to get a taxi back to your car later.”
“Who are you?” asked the woman.
“Nobody you know, just somebody who’d like to help,” said Gage. “Is it okay if I hail you a cab now?”
“I live a good fifteen minutes away,” said the woman. “A taxi will cost about twenty-five or thirty dollars. I can’t let you pay all that.”
“Please, it’s no problem,” said Gage, who fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and took out three tens and two twenties. “This should cover your ride home and back,” he said as he presented the cash to her.
“You’re very kind, but I couldn’t possibly—”
“Yes, you could. You can.”
The woman smiled through the sobbing and gave Gage a hug.
“Now let’s get you a taxi,” said Gage. He guided the woman toward the curb by her elbow and raised his free hand high. When a taxi pulled up and stopped in front of them about ten seconds later, Gage opened the rear passenger side door for the woman and helped her into the yellow sedan.
“Please make sure this woman gets home safely,” Gage said to the driver. “She’ll tell you the address.” Before Gage closed the door, the woman grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.
“Thank you,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “Thank you so much.”
“You take care of yourself, Miss,” said Gage. “I’m sorry about your dog.”
Gage shut the door and waved to the sobbing woman as the taxi drove off. He then turned around and walked into the veterinary clinic.
“Good morning,” said the girl behind the front desk. It was the same girl who’d held the door for the woman earlier. “How can I help you?”
“That woman who left here crying a few minutes ago, I’m assuming her dog didn’t make it?”
“I’m sorry,” said the girl, “but who are you? A relative or friend of hers?”
“No, no,” said Gage. “I just saw how sad she was and would like to help in some way.”
“Well, there’s not much you can do,” the girl replied. “Her Golden Retriever is being euthanized as we speak.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Gage. “I overheard you say something about her bill before. I would like to pay it.”
This holiday season (and beyond), let’s each try to be a little more like Gage – minus all the, you know, homicide and stuff.
