Buying Time

Is a novel that I finished in February 2006. It took me about a year to write…actually longer, but the first 20,000 words dates back a few years. Once I got “into it,” it took about a year.

The main thing about it is that I proved to myself I could do it. I’d written so many comics and short stories, that the idea of a novel just seemed so…well, big! Once I was able to finish it, I sorta proved to myself that I could do it.

After I finished the novel, I sent it out to about 15 first readers. After they responded, I sent out query letters to a whole bunch of agents (around 30). About 3 responded favorably and asked to see sample chapters. Pretty unanimously they all said it started too  slow. All three agreed to see a rewrite. At this stage, I’ve revamped and rewritten and now need to take the time to send it to the three agents again.

The first few pages are printed below. Comments welcomed and encouraged.

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Prologue

Have you ever wished there was something in your life you could re-do? Slipped up and made a wrong decision and then wished you could get another chance at making it right? Turning a yes into a no, or vice versa.

Of course you do. Everyone does.

But once it’s done, it’s done. We live our lives and make mistakes and we’re often told to be careful because we have to live with our mistakes.

Life isn’t like a backyard basketball game-you don’t get a do-over. Life isn’t like a tape or cd…you can’t hit the rewind or erase button and do it again.

Or can you?

Have you ever even really considered time? It is a topic many great minds have considered. Pericles told us that Time is the wisest counselor of all. That great Southern writer, Tennessee Williams, said that Time is the longest distance between two places. Thoreau said, “Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.”

But what do you really know about time? You know there are sixty minutes in an hour, twenty-four hours in a day and seven days in a week. We spend so much time thinking about time that time itself has become a commodity.

One can spend it, one can save it, one can waste it, and many can even do a good job of killing it. Astrid Alauda said that Time is the only thief we can’t get justice against. Dion Boucicault said “Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.”

Sounds alarming, doesn’t it?

Louis Hector Berlioz said that Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils.

To make matters worse, the older you get, the faster time flies. Of course, that can be explained away as all relative. What I mean is to a ten year old a single year is one-tenth of their life. But to a forty year old, one year is only one-fortieth. Hardly noticeable to the forty year old.

We never seem to have enough time to do those things we want to do. We frequently wonder where the time has flown when we’re enjoying ourselves and having a good time.

Religious groups run ads on television that tell viewers the most valuable thing you can give a child is your time.

One of the most famous lines that businessmen use is “time is money.”

Yes, you can use your time wisely or you can waste time.

But, no matter what you do with it, “time” is incredibly valuable.

I should know.

I sell it.
 

Wednesday, July 19

     Tom Morgan’s day started out as usual-it stank.

     “You’re worth more dead than alive.”

     The words had echoed in Tom’s mind earlier that day as he made the half-mile walk to Grady T’s. Thanks to the Alabama humidity, he was thoroughly drenched with sweat by the time he arrived. It was the kind of day sun-worshippers loved.

     A blast of artificially cold air struck him when he opened the door. His ears immediately turned to ice. Tom had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. All the windows in the building were tinted so dark it far surpassed the legal limit for an automobile. Of course, autos and restaurants are two different things, but it seemed to Tom that such dark tint was surely designed to hide something, whether it be in a car or in a restaurant.

     His friend Mike waited for him at the bar, drink in hand. Grady T’s, a restaurant/bar in downtown Florence, catered to the college crowd from the University. The sit-down restaurant occupied fully half of the building. An art-deco water fall/fountain stationed near the entrance at the center of the building and slightly across from the men’s and women’s rooms separated the bar from the restaurant. The bar patrons and the restaurant patrons could not see one another…unless they did so in the bathroom or at the front door.

     Another door led from the bar to the patio. At the end of the building, the patio faced the street, but the street was elevated, forming a sort of natural walled-in feel for the patio, which was also covered to block the elements.

     The patio was empty. It usually was during the hot days of summer.

     For that matter, except for Mike, so was the bar. At 3 o’clock in the middle of the afternoon, most of the bar’s regular patrons were still busy earning their hard earned cash that they might spend there later.

     Without skipping a beat, Tom hiked himself up on the bar stool next to Mike. The two men nodded brief hellos, exchanging that look so that both knew that Mike knew Tom was late but wasn’t going to say anything about it. It was enough though, that Tom felt guilty.

     Mike’s elbows were propped on the bar in front of him, his hands clasped together. He studied the silent baseball game on the television above the bar. Except for turning his head, Mike hadn’t moved.

     “Mike, I’m dying,” Tom said. Mike turned his head slowly to Tom and his brows furrowed, as he tried to read his friend. It was just another way to lay on the guilt.

“Dying? What? How? What do you mean you’re dying?” Mike put his hand on Tom’s shoulder as he leaned closer for the explanation.

     “Well, not dying like I’ve got to order my casket this week,” answered Tom, wondering who would pick up the expense of his death. “But dying like I’ve reached that halfway point in my life and everything is downhill from here.”

     Mike took his hand from Tom’s shoulder and returned it to the position from which it came–clasped with his other hand, inches from his face. Two glasses sat directly in front of him at the bar, one half full, the other empty. He slowly shook his head from side to side as he grabbed the glass still containing beer. It was, in a sense, his way of reprimanding Tom.

     “Please don’t start this again,” he said. “You haven’t even been to a doctor in years. There’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t even catch colds like normal people.”

     “It’s true, though Mike,” said Tom. “And really not just me, everybody is dying from the minute they’re born.” The bartender slid a foamy glass over to Tom. Tom had been there often enough that the bartender knew him. Tom and Mike knew him as “John the beer man.” Tom contended that the beer-man had a genuine interest in the two friends. Mike argued he had a genuine interest in their tab. Which essentially meant money. Tom guessed that Mike might be right, but wasn’t ready to give up the long-running debate.

     Tom looked up at John, nodded his thanks and did his best to wrangle John into the argument.

     “Don’t you agree beer-man?” he asked. “Don’t you think everybody starts dying the day they’re born?”

     “You know me better than that, Tom,” he answered, picking up a slip of paper pushed to him across the bar from a waitress. “All I really know is how to serve beer and mix drinks. It’s what I was born to do. Anything else is beyond me. I leave all that other brainiac stuff to educated people like you.”

     “He agrees with me,” said Tom without skipping a beat, “he just doesn’t want to admit it to you, afraid he’ll hurt your feelings.”

     “He’s afraid he’ll lose my credit card is more like it,” Mike retorted.

     “So what’s on your schedule for today, Tom?” asked Mike, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. Tom’s car had been in the shop the last two weeks and Mike, having the leeway to make and keep his own schedule was playing chauffeur to Tom, at no expense to Tom.

     The beer spilled from Tom’s glass as he set it down in a hurry, eyes widening.

     “I’ve got a really good one today, Mike,” he said of his assignment, turning and grabbing Mike’s sleeve. Mike released his own beer so as not to spill it from Tom’s obvious excitement. “I’m going to interview some guy who spent something like seven years in jail for robbing a bank or something. Supposedly he was in cahoots with three or four other guys and he took the fall for them. They went scot free and the money was never found. Now, finished with his jail time, he’s out and free to spend his share of the money.”

     “Get out…” was all Mike could manage, blindly grabbing his glass and taking a big drink.

     “I’m serious as a heart attack,” replied Tom, shaking his head. “He’s turned in to some big philanthropist now, or something.”

     “I don’t get it,” said Mike, “why’d they let him keep the money?”

     “Oh it’s not that they let him. He didn’t have it or they never found it or something like that.” Tom guzzled the alcohol left in his own glass and hopped off his seat. It was paid for and he was always sure to take full advantage of that and not leave a drop.

     “C’mon, let’s go,” he said.

     Mike followed suit and tossed a bill he had folded in his shirt pocket onto the counter. The money covered the tip for the two of them. He knew that Tom wouldn’t leave any money and so he always came prepared to tip the beer-man for the both of them.

     In minutes, Mike’s Ford Expedition blazed along the highway. Tom talked on and on about his most recent plan to delay his credit card bills once again. Tom had the terrible habit of touching Mike — or for that matter, anyone he was talking to — on the arm just before he said something. It wasn’t a punch, but a light tap or touch to ensure that attention was being paid. With each tap Mike would glance over at Tom, who, despite the tap, was rarely looking at Mike.

     It was one such tap that caused Mike to glance over at Tom and not see the old white Pontiac pull out in front of him. In the habit of speeding, Mike desperately slammed on his brakes. His heavy Expedition spun sideways as he tried to avoid hitting the Pontiac. He slammed into the car anyway, pushing it into the lane of oncoming traffic and into the path of an eighteen-wheeler. The big truck’s air horn was steadily blowing as it smashed into the innocent Pontiac, crushing it and then sending it back on Mike and Tom in the Expedition.

* * *

     Larry Pace had been on top of the world as early as lunch. He’d gone to work like any other day, but he’d gotten a letter in the mail that told him he’d sold his first novel.

     He was flying sky high.

     Larry taught accounting at the University of North Alabama, and it had been all he could do to keep from speeding on his way home. The speedometer crept repeatedly above the speed limit and Larry repeatedly backed away. He left work a little earlier than usual hoping to catch Gracie by surprise. He’d dialed six of the seven numbers to his home telephone several times before the day was over, hanging up before entering the last digit each time. He knew his wife Gracie would be excited about his novel as soon as she learned.

     He pulled his small red pickup into his garage and noticed the absence of his wife’s and his daughters’ car.

     Keying into the back door, it was only then that he remembered today was Wednesday and his wife would be busy at the church preparing supper. Disappointed, he sighed, pulled out the letter, read it one more time and placed it on the dining table at the place setting that was normally Gracie’s.

     The Pace family had only been out of the city limits for about five years, about the same time that they’d decided they were probably in Florence to stay. Larry had picked a place off the main road so his children would have a safer place to play. The yard of about three acres was big enough that he had plenty of room to plant a garden yet wasn’t so big it could be called a farm. The garden was mostly Gracie’s, but he enjoyed tinkering around in it also. Something about pulling weeds and grass from around the plants was therapeutic and it allowed him to spend some quiet time in thought and prayer.

    He’d visited Ernest Hemingway’s one-time home up in Piggott, Arkansas, and decided he wanted an office space like Hemingway’s: a nice big solitary loft above the barn where no one could bother him while he worked. No distractions.

    Actually, Larry’s primary goal was to get a solitary place away from the house, it didn’t have to be a Hemingway barn-loft. He’d made sure to run electricity but not a phone line to the room he called his office. He needed the electricity for his computer and his refrigerator … and for his air conditioner. But he was determined to stay off the phone and off the internet.

     It worked, too. That was partly why he was able to finish his novel.

     While he got his long desired home office, Gracie got the house that she wanted. Mostly. Their daughters each had a bedroom upstairs and shared a bathroom. An empty bedroom up there served as the family “catch-all” room. The door stayed closed more times than not, but it was convenient to have. The master bedroom was tucked away on the bottom floor in the back of the house away from the noise of the traffic–which was negligible on their road anyway. A big bathroom was attached and was Gracie’s domain, with a tiny not-in-the-way-spot for Larry’s shaving cream, razor, deodorant and toothbrush.

     The main room was a big room and was the room in which the family entertained company and themselves. The kitchen connected to the garage, but Gracie insisted on a heavy use of the back entryway–no muddy shoes would touch her floors. Below the girls’ bathroom upstairs was a laundry room. Larry always teased her that the main reason she wanted that house was because of the laundry chute that ran from the girls’ bathroom directly to the room below. Not only that, but it also had a door which was a “back” door to the laundry pantry from the master bathroom. No more collecting and carrying dirty laundry. Gracie was able to go directly to the laundry room and all the dirty clothes were there waiting on her. She had her daughters carry their own clothes up the stairs after they had been washed and dried.

     Since it was Wednesday night, Larry changed into khaki’s and a more casual shirt, one of the ones he bought when he was pretending to be a golfer. He only golfed because all the other accounting professors were doing it. He couldn’t stand golf. He still had his clubs, but he wasn’t sure where they were.

     After changing, Larry hopped back in his pickup and began to pull away. He knew he still had an hour before supper began, and he thought he’d show up and offer his help-something that he rarely had time to do and another way he thought he’d play at telling Gracie the news about his novel. He was unsure whether to tell her or wait and let her find the letter on the table.

     As he pulled out of his driveway and onto the road, a police car pulled into his driveway. Larry touched his brakes and pulled over to the side of the road as he noticed the officer waving him over.

     He threw his truck in park and left his engine running as he opened the door. He met the police officer behind his truck.

     “Mr. Pace?” said the officer.

     “Yes, that’s me,” Larry answered, “What can I do for you?” The police officer looked away into the woods not seeing anything and subtly shook his head. The shake was barely discernable and Larry wasn’t even sure he’d seen it.

     “Mr. Pace,” the officer continued slowly as he removed his hat. “I’m Sergeant Rainer. Mr. Pace, I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.” The officer quite visibly did not want to pass the information along, but knew he had to; it was one of the bad parts of his job. “There’s been an accident–”

     “An accident?” asked Larry, now alarmed. “Oh no! Which one?” he asked as horrible images of his daughters’ pain flashed into his head.

     “Which one?” began the officer. “No, it’s your wife, Gracie–”

     “My wife? Is she okay?”

     “No sir,” Rainer paused. “Look, why don’t you shut off your truck and come along with me.” Rainer twisted his hat in his hands and stared at the ground. Larry was stunned.

     “What do you mean? She’s not okay? Where is she?”

     “Mr. Pace,” said Rainer. He stopped twisting his hat and stared Larry straight in the eyes. “Your wife has been killed in an automobile accident.”