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Category Archives: NaNoWriMo

Me Talk Zombie Someday

Zombie Picture Every Day #1

That’s the working title at the moment. What we have here is a tangent from last year’s NaNo that I got real excited about and wanted to write mid-November 2k10. Lacking a better idea for this year, I’ve decided to do it. An intelligent “zombie” writing his memoir, laying it out for all to see…. Who knows? Once again, I’ve got that “This thing is gonna suck” feeling which comes from lack of plot, lack of planning. I know I’m going to have some amazing idea either Nov 15 or Dec 1. Just wish I had it now.

Anyhow. Enough of that. Positive: Zachary P. Graves is fun to write. It’s all conversational. Lots of swearing! Much zombie humor. Here’s a bit written during last night’s Midnight Scramble….

My name is — was — Zachary P. Graves and I am — technically — dead. I say technically because, really, and I think you’ll agree, any man who can still scratch out his memoirs, any man who can do that still has some shot at life. Right? But, according to the Gooseman-Keane Act of 2015, any person who progressed through Stage IV of Westphail (the popular name for the H3N5P2 virus which did all this) is, for all practical and legal purposes, dead. Done. Extinct. Regardless if that person has been through DEI (Decapitation, Evisceration, Incineration) or is currently trying to break your door down so he can get inside and get a bite to eat, that person is dead. Once you hit Stage IV, your chances of going anywhere but a DEI Station are pretty slim especially now that every Tom, Dick & Harry, and their wives, mothers, kids and pets have been through Westphail Victim Pacification Training. In the beginning, it was easier. Nobody knew what to do with us.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here.Yeah, I’m a fucking zombie, and yeah, I realize I’m just telling you a whole bunch of shit you already know. But, on the off chance that this document doesn’t get toasted the second I do, that someone bothers reading it, that all you skin-so-soft living motherfuckers actually survive Westphail, figure out a way to keep from catching it yourselves, maybe even eradicate the virus itself, maybe having a record of someone who’s been there, done that, and is currently wearing the t-shirt, maybe that would be helpful. To somebody.
And let’s just get something out of the way right off the bat: this isn’t going to have a happy ending. I keep thinking about the kid in I Am Legend — the one who’s got the future of mankind in his hand. I’m not that kid. I’m the only semi-intelligent Z around. I know this, because for fuck’s sake, I’ve tried talking to every single one of the brain-gobbling slow-walking pusballs that I’ve come across and you know what? They all say the same goddamn thing: “Garrr blurble skalkaska wurrrrtz.” Know what that means? Jack and shit. Nothing. They’re not talking. They’re not vocalizing. It’s just noise. Know what’s hilarious? Scientists trying to come up with a Z lexicon. As if they’re going to sit down to tea and have a conversation with them someday. Some pinhead in a lab coat is listening to tapes of Z noise saying, “Oh, this one here, he’s saying he’s lonely!” They’re not lonely. They’re not thinking. Everything you’ve read is true: the Zs have no more feelings. No more emotions. No more needs or desires. Everything has been burnt away by the virus. Written on top of all the things that made those people people is a burning impetus to feed. And you know what they eat. What we eat.
Shit. I guess I’m about to lose half my audience and the rest of you will no longer find me so sympathetic. Yeah. I’ve fed. In the early days, I broke through boarded up doors, dove through windows, tore screaming people apart. Ate their fucking brains. And you know what? I liked it. Hell, I loved it. And I’m sitting there, my new family numbering in the thousands, glassy-eyed, jaws working mechanically, I could see there was no joy, just that constant voice: eat eat eat eat eat. And I thought, You guys are fucking missing out. This is fun! But I don’t hang out with those dudes much anymore. Not if I can help it. The horde, yeah, it’s fun. It’s a constant party, and I mean constant. But it attracts too much attention, not so subtle at all. And all that moaning. Ugh. The first time I felt the wind of shotgun pellets zinging by my face, that’s when I thought, This might not be the thing for me anymore.

Happy Happy Finish Finish


30. A photo of you when you were happy. 11/30/2010 upon finishing NaNoWriMo 2010.

Another weird photo-a-day topic. “When you were happy.” Doesn’t that imply that I’m no longer happy? Well, dammit, I’m happy. So here’s a picture from right now. I don’t do fake-photo-smiles very well, so here’s a real creepy look at me.

Crossed the finish line a few moments ago. What joy! What yippy! This isn’t the closest-to-the-wire that I’ve gone, but it’s up there. Glad to have it done with. Now I wonder what it is I’ve done.

This story started in one place, with one idea, and thematically changed along the way more than anything else I’ve written. Here is what we’ve explored:

  • Responsibility
  • Living up to one’s potential
  • Zombies, both real and metaphoric
  • New Jersey
  • Storge
  • The beast within us all!
  • Other stuff. Yeah, that’s right. Other stuff.

Now is when I wind down, remember that the number of words I type no longer matters. Switch back from narrating things in my head. And let us lay Nano2010 to rest.

Many thanks to many people — the friends, family, and co-workers who let me sit in a corner and write and (mostly) didn’t bother me while I was doing it. All of you whose IP addresses show up daily (or thereabouts) here. It was great to know you all were there watching me write some absolutely ridiculous shit. And nobody told me to stop! Writing is a private, isolated task. It’s a lot more fun with friends.

Plus: Thanks, mom.

Word count: 50,125. Still could write a few more words to make the story connect to itself, but…. Maybe tomorrow.

And I suppose I promised another excerpt. Arthur’s having a rough time (again) and Paul is treating him as if he were his child — taking him upstairs and putting him to bed. I just reread this and out of context, that first paragraph sounds…well, whatever it sounds. What it is is what it is.

Paul led me into the bedroom, left the light off, sat me down on the bed, went and lowered the blinds and drew the curtains across the windows. The room went mostly dark, a sliver or two of afternoon sun slanting through. He turned back to me, found me still sitting upright, right where he’d left me, unmoving, unblinking, unmoved. He lowered my head to the pillow, lifted my legs, slid them onto the bed. His touch was so gentle, I remember that thought penetrating, that thought getting through, that feeling being felt. He patted my head. I could see a crooked half smile on his face in the dim room.

“Try to get some rest,” he said. “I know you just woke up. You slept all day yesterday too, huh? Maybe you just need some more. Just get some rest. Just lie here, Art, and maybe when you wake up you’ll feel a lot better. And I’ll try to figure it all out. Don’t worry.”

And he leaned down, with his hand on the top of my head, and he leaned down and he kissed my forehead, and I remember thinking how many times I had seen him do that to his kids, to his son and daughter, in a darkened room, a sick child in the bed, his hand on the top of his or her head, leaning down to kiss their forehead before leaving them to get their rest. He had told me before that he felt so helpless, so useless when his children were sick, that it was the most painful feeling in the world to know that his kid was suffering and there was nothing he could do about it but make them comfortable as possible and kiss their foreheads and hope they knew that he loved them. And something turned in me, something very slight, a slight twist, something, and I knew the love Paul had for me, the pity he felt for me, the protectiveness, that he would make everything alright, that it would all be okay, and for a second I could feel the comforting coolness of his hand on my forehead and it seemed to penetrate through everything, spread through my body, quelling the fire, bringing everything back into focus and I opened my mouth to tell him that everything was going to be alright, that I was going to be fine, that I loved him and trusted him and knew that he could fix anything, and then it was gone, his hand was gone, the words were gone, the feeling was gone, and Paul walked away from the bed.

“You wear the sins of yourself on the plastic sleeves of the hearts of your mind in these days this troubled times with happiness so near far so close but over there, the reasons never being what reasons shouldn’t be you wear the sins you were the sins, it’s never registered, it never registered that what you did is what you do is what you are is who you are is how you wear your hair is how you wear your face.” It came out in one unbroken stream, the words finding purchase on my tongue as easily as a mountain goat on a narrow ledge.

Must Marry Myrna

29. A photo of someone you find attractive. Myrna Loy (1905-1993)Another cheap shot of a photo a day topic. Someone I find attractive? I think you’re all attractive, you beautiful people, but I don’t have a photo that all of you are in. . So. Here is Myrna Loy, who I, like millions of men before me, fell in love with upon viewing The Thin Man. While writing Illinoir I was consuming as much noir literature and film as I could, and I don’t think anything topped Thin Man. As a husband and wife detective team, Nick and Nora are unsurpassed. And in portraying a strong, independent woman who was also a dedicated wife, a great detective and an amazing drinker, Myrna Loy. Well. Yeah. Dudes formed “Men Must Marry Myrna” clubs. That’s flippin incredible.

The word count is 47,532 which means that finishing is nearly inevitable. My revelation of the other day hasn’t really carried through as much as I wanted it to, and right now I’m doing more story mining, going back and padding out other sections of this thing because I don’t have much action that can carry forward. With that in mind, I present this second to last excerpt of Nanowrimo 2010:

“Say, you went to college, right?”

“Yeah, I went to the College of North Jersey.”

“And what did you get your degree in?”

“I got an Associate’s Degree in Photojournalism.”

“Photojournalism? Really? That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was a lot of fun.”

“And what are you doing with that degree?”

“Well, I’m…. I’m taking pictures of housewares.”

“Right. I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Microbiology. And a Master’s in Applied Macroeconomoneuroplastology. And what am I doing with those?”

“Taking pictures of housewares.”

“Exactly. Nobody’s living up to their potential. And who’s to say if that even is potential? Is there even anything that I could be doing with a Master’s in Macroeconomoneuroplastology? I just got it so I wouldn‘t have to join the real world for another couple years.”

“What is Macroeconomoneuroplastology anyway?” Therese asked.

“It’s the study of the impact of ‘take a penny leave a penny’ trays in gas stations and convenience stores.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. I totally was. “It’s a very specialized field. But, really, what good could that possibly do for anyone? Nothing. For nobody. I tells you.”

“That’s a pretty negative view too, Arthur,” Therese said.

“Again, I tell you, it’s not a bad thing. It’s great to accept that we are going to go nowhere and do nothing with our lives, because that frees us up to do what is possible. What is realistic. There’s no way I’m going to get a position on the Weekly Macroeconomoneuroplastology Review, the most respected Macroeconomoneuroplastology-related publication in the Western Hemisphere. I don’t want to teach Macroeconomoneuroplastology and 7-11 doesn’t exactly hire unknown Macroeconomoneuroplastologists off the street.”

“Why did you get your Master’s in it?”

“Macroeconomoneuroplastology has always been my passion. Even though I knew there was no future in it, I’ve always felt like those penny trays were calling to me, like they were leading me to the promised land, leading me to a better tomorrow.”

“That’s amazing,” Therese said. “That’s how I feel about photojournalism.”

“But it’s not, Therese,” I said. “It’s not calling me, or leading me anywhere. And there is no promised land, there is no better tomorrow. There’s only now and slightly later from now. And slightly later from then.”

“And what comes after that?”

“More of the same. Or something different. Who can say? And who really cares? All that we know is that it all ends. Eventually.”

“What did this have to do with what we were talking about?”

“Mardi Gras?” I asked.

“No, Fat Tuesday.”

“Oh. Right,” I said, and I experienced that first incredible eye-rolling urge. Paul would later tell me about the time he first felt it — five minutes after meeting Therese, she had commented on Paul’s dreadlocks and asked him if he knew Bob Marley. Not if he knew Bob Marley’s music, mind you, but if he actually knew  Bob Marley. Because of his dreadlocks. Paul’s eyes had nearly rolled out of his head. I think I should get some credit for having lasted more than a week.

Half Baked

28. A photo of something you cooked or baked. 11/25/2010. A batch of crackies.Â

Some of you want the recipe. Others of you want to ban me from dessert. Some of you fall into both camps, and I’m not so sure what to do with you. Here it is anyway.

Fudgie Scotch Squares (Crackies)

1 cup semi-sweet chocolate morsels
1 cup butterscotch morsels
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1.5 cups graham cracker crumbs (about 18 squares, if you’re making your own crumbs)
If you like nuts in your sweets (I don’t) you can go with some chopped walnuts as well. Coconut also works nicely.

Preheat oven to 350. Mix all ingredients. Press into a well-greased and floured 9″ square baking pan. Bake for 30-35 minutes. Let cool for 45 min, cut into 1.5″ squares. Let cool completely, cut again, remove from pan.

You’re going to want to eat them right away, but trust me when I tell you that they’re infinitely better on their second day.

Wordcount: 45,868. Today’s excerpt is based on a conversation I actually had recently, and have related a couple times to various people. Getting to the point where mining real life is all I have left in the tank….

I approached her desk. She nodded me into a chair. I sat.

“…that’s why it’s flawed,” she said into the phone. Her anger was palpable. “I explained it already…. No, it’s not because it’s cheaper…. What don’t you understand?…. They’re replica Muslim prayer rugs…. So, devout Muslims leave an obvious flaw in each rug they make because only God can be perfect…. It’s true, I asked a Muslim guy at my gym…. Fine, I’ll get you his number…. Fine, bye.” She hung up the phone.

“That flaw thing is bullshit, and if it’s not it’s incredibly asinine.”

“I don’t care what you think, Arthur,” she said.

“Seriously, it’s all a marketing ploy by Muslim prayer rug weavers. Some tourist was pissed because the quality of the souvenir prayer rug he had bought wasn’t up to his incredibly high standards and complained about it. Rather than just swapping out the rug for one that didn’t have a flaw, the guy just fed the tourist that incredibly ridiculous line. Can you imagine if everything they did they did like that? It makes no sense.” I paused. Kelly was barely listening. I went on anyway. I didn’t really have anything better to do. “But check this out, the flaw in the whole story is the idea that unless the rug makers deliberately leave a flaw in the rug, that it would be perfect which is just not true, since not only is God the only one around who’s allowed to be perfect, He’s also the only one that can actually be perfect. Even if the rug maker doesn’t leave the flaw, his prayer rug wouldn’t be perfect. It’d just be a prayer rug of some certain amount of quality.”

I stopped, thought it about some more.

“Are you done?” Kelly asked after a moment or two.

“Not really,” I said, for I had considered another angle. “What the hell is a ‘perfect’ prayer rug anyway? Is there some Platonic ideal prayer rug out there? Is perfection a prayer rug that will perfectly cushion a  supplicant’s knees as he prays? Or one that will somehow expedite the delivery of the prayers from prayer to prayee? Or is it just some perfection of the pattern in the rug, some ideal design that would make the rug superior to all others?”

“Please, stop,” Kelly said.

“Ok, but one more thing: what if the ideal, perfect prayer rug is one that ostensibly appears to be perfect except for one particularly obvious and purposely made flaw? What if by making that flaw, the rug maker is accidentally making the most perfect prayer rug that was ever made?”

“You don’t ever stop, do you? And you don’t ever actually have a point.”

“My point is this: by interfering with the process of making something, by putting something into our creations in order to placate an imaginary friend who lives in the sky, we are limiting ourselves in ways that we shouldn’t be. We should all just strive to do the best work we can, knowing that no matter how hard we try, we will never attain perfection, whatever perfection might be, whatever that nebulous concept might be.”

“‘Strive to do the best work we can?’” Kelly asked. “That sounds like good advice for you, Arthur.”

“Oh, without a doubt. My efforts are often paralyzed by the fact that no matter how hard I try, I know I’ll never get it quite right.”

“So it’s not laziness then?”

“Oh, that’s a big part of it.”

And Then Suddenly…

27. A photo of last summer. 8/30/10. Adam, Erin, Sarah, Nick, Aaron. Sarah's new front steps. Photo by Sarah Larson.

Normally I’d say you couldn’t have a photo of “last summer.” The best you could do would be a photo from last summer. But this photo pretty much does it. After we moved Sarah into her new place, the five of us relaxed for a couple hours on her front steps, eating pizza, drinking beer, enjoying the evening. It was the summeriest moment of the year, and it was very very good stuff.

Four days left until the 30 days are up. At 43,813 right now, which isn’t too bad of a position to finish…if I don’t go play Halo after I post this. Words aren’t coming so easily this time around. Writing has taken place in fits of 150 words at a time. Wendy just sits there and spits out a thousand in a heartbeat. I used to be able to do that.

Arthur’s having a bad day. Imagine going to your friend’s house for a barbecue and finding all your co-workers there.

(it'd be a lot like this, but worse.)

Oh, and also, you’re turning into some sort of hideous monster.

I turned back to look outside. Trammel was on Paul’s back deck, wearing an apron from our Lighthouse Living Decor series, manning the grill. Steph was standing uncomfortably close, leaning against him, laughing at everything he said. I rolled my eyes in disgust. Trammel was known to be something of a ladies man, constantly hitting on every female that worked for him. Rumors abounded of his success with the women, and what impressionable, starry-eyed 20-something housewares company employee wouldn’t want to go to bed with the boss? One of the very few one-on-one interactions I had had with him had been outside the front door of the building. I was returning from lunch and had watched as Trammel smacked the ass of his PA as she went inside only to turn around and flirt shamelessly with a sales assistant. As I approached, Trammel had winked at me and said, “It’s good to be the king.”

Certainly it was. Who was I to deny that? When you’re ambitious and lucky enough to rise to the top of an empire, no matter what empire it is, you’ve got to take advantage of the spoils, right? That it was a third-rate housewares producer in a nowhere town, making money by exploiting cheap Chinese labor and cheap American aesthetics was neither here nor there. The man owned his own company, his own multi-million dollar company and you had to hand it to him, he knew how to play it.

The part I hated, the part that made my skin crawl every day since then was that when Trammel winked and said what he said, I smiled and laughed and winked back and I had felt good about it. God help me, for a minute there I had felt flattered that Trammel had brought me into his confidence, had made a joke with me, had not chucked me on the shoulder, but had very nearly, very spiritually, might as well have chucked me on the shoulder as he passed me on his way to his cherry red Corvette. The feeling left quickly, left completely as he gunned his engine, peeled out of the lot, leaving for the day at one in the afternoon, I couldn’t deny that it must be good, that it was undoubtedly good, and should be the goal of every man, to be the king, to be on top, to have the power. But I couldn’t deny that I also felt dirty, that I needed a shower. I was ashamed that I had let him charm me, that I had let his power lead me on. And I had hated him ever since.

And then there he was, directing his charm at Steph, pretending to be an every man, pretending like he knew how to use a grill all his life, like he was like one of us, or like he could take on any task that any common man could do, and do it better, because he was that good, because he was the king. And Steph, goddamn her, she was falling for it. But I couldn’t really blame her either. She basked in his attention, glowed from it, glowed like no woman had ever glowed around me. They were at the center of my vision, the edges hazy, blurry, indistinct, as if a spotlight was shining down on them, obscuring all else. My hand, planted against the wall, shaking, unable to support my weight, and I went to my knees again. All this in a matter of moments. Down on my knees, on the floor again.

It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like…

26. A photo of you at Christmastime. 12/24/1979. An unhealthy addiction to video games is born.

34 Christmastimes have produced a bunch of choice pictures. I debated sharing one of the photos from my awkward years – long hair, baseball hat, bad skin, ugly sweater, stone washed jeans, high tops, etc. – but I have a particular love for this photo. We’re in Pittsburgh at Grandmommy and Granddaddy’s (Mom’s parents’) house. Dad and I are playing my brand new handheld baseball video game (well, it was all LEDs and beeping noises, but still) on Christmas Eve. I am wearing my brand new “Mork” suspenders. I dig the closeness, the father-son nature of this picture. Not pictured is a bigger family bond — my Jewish-raised-then-Unitarian-living father celebrating (in a secular manner) Christmas with his wife and kids and his wife’s parents. The year before is even more interesting: Grandma and Grandpa (Dad’s parents) also joined us there. 2 Jews, 2 Presbys and 4 Unitarians, all getting together and hanging out.

Well, it’s just kinda cool.

Word count: 42,302 (84.6%)

Here is the brand new beginning of the novel, required to round out what will eventually become the end of the story.

The cicadas are here, hovering about my head, mating on the wing, getting ready to die. I am too, I suppose. Getting ready to die, that is. I wish I could say I had a good run at it, but that just wouldn’t be true. It would be nothing more than a comforting lie, an attempt to placate myself at the very end. It would serve no other purpose but to make these last few weeks, or days, or minutes — there’s no telling how much longer there is — more bearable.

Love the Night

25. A photo of a night you loved. A basement show, sometime between '89 and '93. Photo by Steve Parkes

It’s tough to say how much I loved this night at the time. Some nights only become dear years later, so I say I loved this night looking back on it with the wisdom that comes with 20 or so years of separation. We used to play music. In basements. All the time.

Not much writing yesterday, but a strange revelation while standing outside Morseland in the rain. I have the ideas for the finishing touches on the novel. Now it’s just up to me to execute over the next five days. Think today will be a zero word count, but tomorrow will rise again. Or something like that. Standing at 41,770.

Also: Hoping everyone has a happy and healthy Thanksgiving. I am off to join (amongst others) the two people in the foreground of this photo for a friendly neighborhood dinner.

“Thanks for dinner, Sharon,” Therese said as she got into my car.

I turned the key in the ignition. “Yeah, thanks for making us spend more time together instead of just giving us cash,” I said under my breath.

“You’re such an ass, Arthur,” Therese said.

“Do you still want a ride?”

“Of course I do. How else am I going to get home?”

“I’m not sure. You might not want to have to find out.” I backed the car out of the parking space, honked twice at Paul as I passed his car and turned out onto the main road. “I hear there are wolves out there.”

“Why you….” Therese started, searching for words. “You’re just a monster!”

“I’m not just a monster, Therese,” I said. “I’m also a monster.”

And that shut her up for the duration of the ride to her house. Aside from a few mumbled directions, she was silent. Yeah, I’d borrowed the line from a John Barth novella, but it was a good one, and I felt it applied. I wasn’t just a monster. I had my moments, though. My moments of monstrosity when my inner demons fought their way to the surface, taking hold of my personality, making me, an otherwise reasonable person, into some sort of beast. They made me do things like threaten a good hearted, albeit annoying, young woman who wanted nothing more than for everyone to get along, for people to do their jobs, and for things to be okay. Unfortunately for Therese, that was against everything I stood for.

Hair.

24. A photo of you that your hair looks nice in. 11/14/2009 Nanowrimo Pic-A-Day

Pictures where my hair looks good are few and far between. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the less hair I have, the better I look, which is a good thing, since it’s going away whether I shave it or not. This one is from last year’s NaNo again, newly shorn, sitting outside on the back porch, writing about Melvil Dewey.

An example of a bad hair day. I'm the clown.

Not much to speak of in NanoLand. Sitting at 40,953. The home stretch awaits.

Here’s a deep cut of an excerpt, from way back in the…middle. Or something.

I looked back over at Kelly. There was no chance of anything happening with her. I know that Luis, one of the warehouse guys, had gone out with her a few times. He was too much of a gentleman (or so he claimed — I think he just didn’t like me enough) to reveal any details, but from what I gathered, Kelly only dated Hispanic guys that were over six feet tall, drove red cars made in a factory that was on Greenwich Mean Time, lived in 1200 square foot apartments north of New Brunswick, spoke three languages, knew the rules to Brazilian League Football, scored between 1000-1200 on their SATs and could harness a donkey using six feet of twine and a food processor. I failed on so many levels when it came to her.

I turned back to Steph. She was starting to look better and better in my eyes. I smiled at her and said, “Well, around you, Steph, I feel like I can just say anything.” I wasn’t usually prone to such shmaltzy declarations, but desperate times call for desperate measures, or something like that. “Say, would you like to go have a drink this weekend?”

Before Steph could answer, Kelly skewered me with another glare. She must have sensed that we were no longer talking about Cola Industries related topics. I could sense her gaze burning into me without looking over. I think Stephanie did too because she immediately turned back to her computer and started typing randomly at her keyboard. When I did finally muster the courage to look back over at Kelly, she pointed angrily at the doorway. In case I didn’t get the message, she said, “Arthur. Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

I beat a hasty retreat. As I passed through the doorway, Kelly said, “Come on. Those pictures won’t take themselves.”

As if I didn’t know that already.

Cassie

23. A photo of one of your pets. February, 1982. Cassie as a kitten.

That’s Cassie!

Writing continues. Past 40,000. (Word 40,000 was “booze.”)

Resigned to the fact that nothing really happens in this “novel.”

No excerpt today? No excerpt today.

My Kind of Town (Chicago Is…)

22. A photo of your town. 10/30/04. First view of the Chicago skyline in a year.

What a moment. Returning to Chicago after a year abroad (New Jersey.) Hastily snapped photo of the skyline as I pilot the truck containing my belongings homeward. It felt amazing and surreal and humbling to come back. When I made the decision to leave, I actually uttered the words, “There’s nothing for me here.” Thoughtless words, those. There’s everything for me here. Except for Yuengling. That’s just out east.

Back up to a respectable daily count, which means I can actually share some numbers. We’re at 38,740 and climbing. That puts us at 77%. The month is 73% done. Still in the running.

Of course, the writing is weird. The story has completely gone out the window, so I am going back to old scenes and adding one those funny ridiculous stories that I love having characters tell.

“I did hook up with Susan though,” I continued.

“Oh yeah!” Paul said. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Susan was a former sales assistant who had left Cola about a week after I started. We flirted at her going-away party and since I had not yet had enough time to display my complete unsuitability as a mate to everyone through my unprofessional behavior, my petulant attitude, and my bad personal grooming, Susan had considered me fresh meat, viable and available, and had allowed me to escort her home.

I smiled, fondly thinking back to that night. “That was fun.”

“Wait a second,” Paul said. “That’s not what you told me.”

“What?”

“Come on, Art, ‘fess up. There are no secrets or lies in the Cubicle of Truth.”

“I thought we had stopped calling it that,” I said. We had been going back and forth on the official cubicle name. Much work time had been devoted to the very important debtate. “I thought we had settled upon Plagueville.”

“Regardless of the name, Arthur, the fact remains. Once a Cubicle of Truth, always a Cubicle of Truth. As long as you reside here, you shall be bound by its laws.”

“Crap.”

“So, tell the audience what happened, Arthur.”

“Alright,” I started, already warming to the story. My people love telling stories. It is in my blood and it doesn’t matter if the story shows me in a good light or not. In fact, the worse off I come across in a story, the more sympathetic (or just pathetic) I appear. Or so I thought. It was a Jewish thing. I think. “So Susan and I are hanging out at her party in the break room, and we’re both pretty tipsy….” Alcohol was normally forbidden at all company events, whether Cola-sponsored or not, but Susan was incredibly resourceful. Her brother was Cola’s legal counsel and had found numerous loopholes in the company alcohol policy. Ever since then, as long as the event took place on an odd-numbered day, within three days of a major holiday (of any nation, creed, or culture) and was not taking place near computers or heavy machinery, we could get away with drinking booze on site. It was known as the Susan Initiative, and we thanked her for it weekly. “So I said, ‘Would you like to come back to my cubicle?’ and she said, ‘Is that what you packaging kids call it these days?’ And of course, I was confused by that because what else does anybody call a cubicle. I mean, a cubicle is a cubicle, right? I suppose some people call them ‘cubes’ but that’s really more of an abbreviation than anything else.”

I could tell that I was losing my audience. Therese looked like she might fall asleep, Kate looked even less engaged than ever and even Paul, who normally listened with rapt attention to any story that I might tell seemed uninterested. He had turned back to his computer, and while I knew he was listening, I could tell from the back of his head that he was growing bored.

“Anyhow. I realize you guys are all busy so I’ll just cut to the chase. After a bit of witty repartee, a little back and forth, we cut out of here and head over to her place. Now I don’t know if you know this, but you’re about to: Susan has a dog.”

“We know,” Paul groaned. Of course they knew. We all knew. Susan talked about nothing but her dog, pretty much all day every day. I had only known her a week, but already I had been shown pictures of her dog and told stories about her dog a dozen times. I have a pretty strict “Don’t tell me about your dog unless he’s on fire or he cured cancer” policy, but, being new in town, and eager to make friends, I had listened intently.