[Stylist] novel excerpt

[Patricia Logan]

I just finished the chapter you shared and I enjoyed it very much.  The
writing is exceedingly good, descriptive yet layed back. By that I mean not
pushing too hard.  It's so entertaining that the educational elements don't
intrude.  I can't wait to read more of your writing.

     And it's not weird for kids to collect bugs.  When I was little I
climbed along a narrow ledge with a fence on one side and a steep drop on
the other.  I couldn't figure out how to come down.  Thank goodness my
mother heard my screams for help and found me.

     Pat Logan

On Fri, Sep 21, 2018 at 8:51 AM Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter via Stylist <
stylist at nfbnet.org> wrote:

> Chris,
>
> I am excited to read this and give you any feedback. I'm at a writing
> retreat this weekend and also have my thesis I'm working on, so, will get
> to it when I can 😊
>
> Bridgit
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Stylist <stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org> On Behalf Of Chris Kuell via
> Stylist
> Sent: Thursday, September 20, 2018 2:17 PM
> To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Cc: Chris Kuell <ckuell at comcast.net>
> Subject: [Stylist] novel excerpt
>
> Greetings,
>
> There hasn't been much life on this list lately, so I thought I'd post a
> chapter from the novel I mentioned yesterday when responding to David's
> post. All comments and suggestions are welcomed.
>
>
>
>
> Roofers
>
> By Chris Kuell
>
>
>         My sister Ingrid gave me an alarm clock last year for Christmas.
> It speaks the time, and it has two alarm functions, one for weekends and
> one for weekdays. The best feature is that it can communicate with a
> military satellite orbiting the earth, so the time is always correct. It
> even changes itself for daylight savings time.
>         Truth is, I don’t need it. The alarm part, at least. I’ve heard
> there are dogs out there that let their owners sleep in mornings. But, I
> don’t have one. Weekdays Amos waits until six a.m. to plop his big head on
> my pillow and wake me up. He’s a very smart dog, and on weekends he usually
> waits until six-thirty before letting me know it’s time to go. Saturday,
> after inhaling a lungful of canine halitosis, I pressed a button and the
> clock announced that it was six-fourteen a.m. “You’re a little early this
> morning, aren’t you?”
>         Amos answered me by pushing his snout closer to mine and snorting.
> I rubbed his head and neck for a minute, climbed out of bed and into some
> clothes. Early September mornings in Maine can be chilly, but as we stepped
> outside, a warm breeze and the chattering of birds greeted us. I put the
> leash on Amos and we meandered a few blocks to the south.
>         As puppies, guide dogs are trained that, when they're in harness,
> they're working and it's serious business. All the normal dog instincts,
> chasing cars and cats, barking at other dogs, eating a scrap that fell out
> of somebody’s trash, are shut off. In harness, the dog and handler operate
> as a team, and the dog knows his role.
>         For our morning walks, I put Amos on a leash and let him be his
> own dog self. We travel routes we’ve done a thousand times, and he sniffs
> this and whizzes on that. I always carry a plastic bag to clean up after he
> takes a dump, and this is how we start our days.
>         Back home a half-hour later, it sounded as if total havoc was
> underway in the downstairs apartment. This was where the Bonds family was
> currently squatting. They had seemed like nice enough folks when I first
> rented to them a year and a half ago. George had a good job at an auto
> parts store, and Violet stayed home with their three kids. They paid their
> rent, were fairly considerate when it came to parking, and except for a few
> all-night baby wailing sessions, we got along just fine. Until last spring,
> that is, when George claimed he hurt his back at work and sued for
> disability. Of course the auto parts store doesn’t want to pay, and George
> doesn’t want to work. The end result, though, is that they only came up with
> half the rent in May, and haven’t given me a dime since.
> One kid was crying, the others were yelling, and at seven in the morning,
> the television was already blaring. I made a fist, banged the door twice,
> and yelled, “Knock it off.” Everything but the TV went silent. My lawyer
> has warned me several times not to confront George or Violet, so Amos and I
> went upstairs and had some breakfast.
>         An hour later, my friend Gary showed up with his extension ladder,
> some sheet metal and a package of roofing shingles. Gary is a home
> inspector when the weather is good. He cuts firewood and sells it through
> most of the winter, when home sales are slow.
>         Before I lost my sight, I used to play third base in a men’s
> softball league for an enthusiastic, but mediocre team called the Black Sox.
> Our first baseman moved away and we were in a pinch. At our next practice,
> a six-foot-two beanpole with a red goatee showed up with a bottle of Jack
> Daniels. Several of the guys didn’t want to let him play. But, lacking any
> other prospects, the team decided to give him a try. Gary downed the
> remainder of his pint, then proceeded to hit three home runs and didn’t let
> a ball get by him at first.
>         At the first game, Gary showed up with a six-pack of beer. In the
> seventh inning, with one out, the other team had a runner on second and
> their clean-up hitter at bat. The guy clocked a pitch, drove it hard down
> the first base line, and the runner on second took off. Gary jumped easily
> two feet straight up, stretched as far as he could and snagged what could
> have been a two-run homer. Before Gary was back on earth he spun and
> whipped the ball to me at third. I tagged the runner. Inning over. It was
> beautiful, and we’ve been best friends ever since.
>         Amos had the run of the yard while Gary and I hauled supplies up
> the ladder to the roof. Since my friend was providing time and equipment, I
> got to carry up the bundle of shingles.
>         “Before we get started,” Gary said, “My professional opinion is
> that this roof needs replacing. Patching will buy you time, but band-aids
> always fall off after a while.”
>         “Thank you for your expert advice, but the plumber’s bill last
> week set me back three hundred and fifty bucks. I’ll have to start selling
> my organs if I need any more home repairs.” I pulled my telescoping cane
> from my back pocket and extended it. I swept it around in large arcs to
> feel the roof’s edges and corners to get oriented. “So, I have to opt for
> the
> band-aids.”
>         We decided Gary would patch the flashing in one valley and replace
> shingles in a section where I’d lost some. My job was to repair the
> flashing around the chimney.
> “So how’s business these days?” Gary asked.
> After losing my sight, my job, my fiancée, and my self-worth ten years
> ago, I had picked myself back up and trained as a massage therapist. I
> found a job working with a chiropractor, but since the great recession hit
> a few years ago, and massage isn’t covered by insurance, things have been
> tight.
> Too tight. And with the parasites downstairs bleeding me dry, I had no idea
> what to do.
>  “Slower than molasses on a January morning. Hopefully it will snow soon.
> Shoveling always brings in a few hurt backs.” I decided to change the
> topic.
> “How’s Lynne and the kids?” I asked as I tossed shingle scraps onto a tarp
> we’d laid in the yard.
>         “Lynne’s good. Her mom’s going to have a knee replacement next
> week, so she’s all in a panic over that. Tiffany’s doing great. She played
> in a piano recital a few weeks ago and the kid really rose to the occasion.”
>         “That’s great, good for her.” I had to raise my voice over Gary’s
> hammering. “And how about Nate?”
>         Gary finished a shingle and put his hammer down. “He’s my son, and
> you know I love him to death. But, sometimes, the boy just ain’t right.”
>
>         I squeezed a glob of roofing cement onto the new nails in the
> flashing and smeared it around with my finger to make sure I got everything.
> “What do you mean?”
>         “When I was a kid,” Gary said, “I collected baseball cards. Also,
> me and my buddies had marble collections, and we’d trade them or play for
> keeps. So, guess what my son collects?”
>         “Not baseball cards and marbles, I’d guess.”
>         “Dead bugs. He had a conniption fit when Lynne found them under
> his bed and threw them away.”
>         “Bugs, like moths and butterflies?”
>         “Anything. Dead worms he found on a sidewalk, dead flies he found
> on the windowsill. Wasps, bees, roaches, spiders. Kid had a shoe box nearly
> full of dead bugs.”
>         “Maybe he’ll be one of those, whatcha call its, insectologists one
> day.”
>         “Entomologist,” Gary corrected. “That is, if he lives that long.
> The kid heard on some television show that Americans don’t get enough
> fiber, so he decided to start eating paper, since it’s made out of wood and
> is nearly one hundred percent fiber.”
>         “Oh, what’s the big deal?” I said. “You must have eaten paper when
> you were a kid. Everybody has.”
>         “Not everybody,” Gary said. “Some of us had enough brains to know
> eating paper was stupid.”
>         “Okay, how about dog food? You ever eat a dog biscuit?”
>         “Not voluntarily,” he said. “My older brother Mark, the crazy one,
> made me when I was like four.”
>         “You didn’t like it?”
>         “It wasn’t as bad as I imagined, I have to admit. But I still
> wouldn’t ever have done it except under severe mental and physical duress.”
>         I nailed two rows of shingles around the new flashing and heard
> Hillary, the oldest kid  from downstairs, playing with Amos. It wasn’t long
> before the other two joined her. The morning sun warmed our backs as we
> worked. Gary told me a story about a drunken woman in Wells who offered him
> drinks and tried to put the moves on him while he inspected her house.
> “What’d you do?” I asked.
>         “I accepted a glass of Wild Turkey and ginger ale, but didn’t take
> her up on her offer of a more intimate inspection.”
>         We finished around eleven-thirty and yelled down to the kids to
> stay out of the way as we tossed a few remaining scraps. Gary positioned
> himself to go down the ladder first. “Houston, we have a problem.”
>         “What?” I said, finding the top of the ladder with my cane.
>         “Unauthorized toddler, looks to be two or three, about half-way up
> the ladder.”
>         “What? Who’s on the ladder? Ivan, is that you? Get down right now.”
>         “It’s not Ivan,” Hillary called up to me. “It’s Oscar.”
>         “Well, tell him to get down. Ladders can be very dangerous.”
>         Hillary pleaded with the boy, but apparently he only moved one
> more step up. “He doesn’t know how to come down,” Hillary said.
>         Jesus, this is all I need. A toddler falls and breaks his neck, on
> my ladder in my yard. “Hillary, can you climb up and help him down?”
>         “He’s too high. I’m scared of ladders,” she said.
>         “Shit,” I muttered. “Oscar, down. Go down.” I used my dog command
> voice and hoped the little varmint would obey.
>         “He’s smiling, and he just moved up another step,” Gary said. “If
> we just gave it a shake, he’d fall, but probably be okay.”
>         “Too risky,” I said. “I’m going to have to get him.”
>         “Let me,” Gary said. “Working eyeballs might come in handy for
> this particular rescue mission.”
>         “What’s your game plan?” I asked, holding the ladder as he started
> his descent.
>         “Reach down between my legs and grab him by the collar. If it’s a
> quality shirt, he’ll live.”
>         The ladder rattled against the gutter as Gary went down. “Okay,
> little Oscar,” Gary said in his caring, daddy voice. “I’m going to reach
> down and pull you up, and you aren’t going to wiggle at all. Right?”
>         “No,” the kid said.
>         The next thing I heard was the kid crying, the ladder clanging,
> Gary cursing, and a sound like a dropped bag of mulch striking the ground.
>         “Everybody okay?” I asked in a panic. “Gary? Oscar?”
>         After a groan, Gary said, “Fabulous.”
>         I swung my leg over and scrambled down the ladder as quick as I
> could. Hillary was comforting a bawling Oscar. Amos ran around, barking at
> all the excitement. “What happened?”
>         Gary groaned. “I got above him, reached through my legs and pulled
> him up. No problem. I cuddled him close to my chest, and the little bastard
> turned and took a bite out of my arm. I jerked away and fell the last few
> steps.”
>         “Is the kid hurt? Hillary?” But she had carried her brother inside
> the house.
>         “He’s fine,” Gary said. “He had me for a cushion.”
>         “You okay?”
>         “I probably need a tetanus shot, and I won’t be able to walk
> tomorrow, but I’ll live.”
>         Maybe it was his well-maintained, baseline alcohol level, but Gary
> didn’t react to pain in the same way most people do.  One time we were
> hiking Tumbledown Mountain, and he slipped on some moss covered rocks. He
> fell about fifteen feet and cut one leg pretty bad. Since I couldn’t see
> the injury, I relied on his judgment. Gary poured some gin on the cut to
> flush it out, then tied a spare tee shirt around the wound. We completed
> our climb.
>         It wasn’t until we were off the mountain that Gary said, “I think
> we better run over to the hospital. I might need a few stitches.” He ended
> up getting five stitches in his leg, as well as a lecture from the attending
> physician, who had smelled liquor on his breath.
>         Gary put away the ladder while I gathered roofing debris for the
> trash. As I started folding the tarp, I heard the grunting and huffing of a
> wildebeest coming at me from the front yard.
>         “What the hell did you do to my baby?” Violet Bonds raged. The
> words were spit-covered and lispy.
>         “Saved him from breaking his neck. You’re welcome.”
>         “What kind of idiot sets up a ladder where children are playing?”
>         “This is my house, my yard, and my roof. I can do what I like, and
> you need to keep your rugrats the hell away.” I wasn’t quite yelling, but
> my voice had raised a decibel, and Gary stepped closer.
>         Violet responded by cranking up her own volume. “You’re dangerous.
> You can’t even see how dangerous you are. If you want to fall off the roof
> and kill yourself, go right ahead. But, when you hurt my child, you’ve
> crossed the line.”
>         “Here’s an idea,” I said. “Do us both a favor. Pay me, pack your
> stuff and move.”
>         “You’re a bitter, hateful man. If you ever come near my kids
> again, I’ll, I’ll--” Violet searched the clay in her skull for a cliché.
>         “Slit your belly open and make sausage from your entrails?” Gary
> offered.
>         Violet growled, and I could hear the spittle spewing between her
> Cro-Magnon teeth.   She kicked at something in the grass and stormed away.
>         “Nice suggestion,” I said.
>         “Glad I could help,” Gary said.
>         I fed Gary a meatball grinder and three beers for lunch, and he
> helped me go through some mail. Half-a-dozen bills I couldn’t pay, and a
> notice from the cable company that my service would be turned off in ten
> days if I didn’t make immediate restitution.
>         I heard the front door open and someone went into the apartment
> downstairs. A few minutes later, heavy footsteps came up my stairs. I heard
> Gary move to the window. “Look out,” he said. “It’s the fuzz. There’s a
> cruiser in the driveway.”
>         “I’m Officer Chaunessy,” a deep woman’s voice said when I answered
> the door. I introduced myself and we shook hands. “Want to tell me what
> happened?”
>         She was tall, with man hands and a tone that conveyed she had
> better things to do. I told her about working on the roof, Oscar’s climbing
> aptitude and Gary’s selfless rescue of the boy.
>         “Do you really think it’s wise,” the officer asked, “for a guy
> with your disability to be climbing around on a roof? Do you think it’s
> wise to leave ladders and tools around where there are children playing,
> and you can’t observe them?”
>         I stood there, my hand cramped from squeezing the doorknob so hard.
> “Is being unwise illegal?”
>         “It’s called reckless endangerment and can lead to tragedy. My job
> is to serve and protect.” She put special annunciation on the word protect,
> like a constipated nun teaching remedial English.
>         “Then go downstairs and protect the kid who needs it, ’cause I
> don’t.”
>         The cop changed tactics.  “Where is this friend of yours?”
>         A four-second beer belch resounded from behind me. “Hi, I’m Gary.”
>         “Is it true that you were working on the roof with Mr. Wonder and
> played a role in getting the baby off the ladder?”
>         “Truth?” Gary said. “You can’t handle the truth.”
>         This must have unnerved the cop. Silence hung in the air for
> several seconds before she regained her composure.
>         “Have you been drinking?” she asked.
>         “Have you been drinking?” Gary asked back.
>         I needed to step in before things got ugly. “Listen, this is my
> house. The people downstairs are squatting illegally, and I’m in the
> process of evicting them. Gary and I were up on the roof, which I have
> every right to do, and their unattended kid climbed up our ladder. Gary got
> him down, and the kid wasn’t hurt. He was upset, just like I told you.
> Hillary, the kid’s sister, witnessed the whole thing. There is no need for
> your involvement.”
>         It took me another ten minutes to persuade the cop that we hadn’t
> been drinking until after we finished on the roof, and I managed to get
> Gary to shut up and show the cop the teeth marks on his arm.
>         “I hate cops,” Gary said, almost after the door was closed. He
> grabbed us each a beer. We watched a special about hurricanes on the
> Weather Channel and exchanged theories about how bugs get into enclosed
> light fixtures, and how that might be an untapped resource for  his son
> Nate to rebuild his collection.
>
>
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