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Writer's Block

So, I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, there’s money to be had from writin’ stories or even maybe a book. Yeah books are probably where the money’s at.  Now how those people go about doin’ that is beyond me so I figured I’d read somethin’ about it.  Came to find out, I wasn’t a non-writer after all but had writer’s block.  Of course, that made me feel better about myself and a little happier about not doin’ anything.    Well, my ne’er do well sister felt it was her duty to let me know that a body had to be try’in to do somethin’ in order to be blocked from it.  It didn’t make any sense to me, but she did graduate from high school and worked at the bank, so it wasn’t worth arguin’.  I heard that the woman who had written the wizard books, Harry Potter I think, hung out in a coffee shop all day and wrote.  I immediately saw this as something I could do, with a minor adjustment. 


Next mornin’ I rolled outta bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth and laundry day be damned, put on a clean t-shirt.  Not being a coffee drinker, I took up a table at Fatso’s Bar and Grille with a laptop computer, borrowed from my sister.  Fatso brought me a draft beer and I told him about my plan to become a writer.  He said, stranger things have happened and wished me good luck with a pat on the shoulder.  Fatso was a good old boy and a Viet Nam veteran.  Never talked about his time in Nam much but was proud of his Silver Star he kept above the bar.  Word is, he had several more and was quite a hero over there.  One of the other old boys was showin’ off some newspaper clippings of Sgt. William Carmichael a couple years ago, that told the story of how Fatso had saved twelve other Marines in a fire fight and took four bullets himself.  A lot of people in the tavern didn’t even know Sgt. Carmichael and Fatso were one and the same.  Clearin’ my mind,  I cracked my knuckles, turned on the laptop and was ready to be a success.


“What’re ya doin’ over there, writing an expose on Fatso’s home for unwed father's?  Doctor Lauria waved to me and sat up at the bar and ordered his coffee.  He was a coffee drinker during the day but his real enthusiasm was manhattans on the rocks after five.  Angelo Lauria, was from the neighborhood and was our success story.  A world-renowned psychiatrist who had worked with every law enforcement agency you could think of.  It seemed that if a fella or a gal for that matter, had an inclination for serial killin’, Angie or Dr. Lauria that is, had a file on’em. 


Billie brought Doc his coffee from the kitchen.  Billie worked a couple mornings a week in the kitchen for Fatso.  She was in her late twenties, pretty, single with a couple kids.  She brought me another draft and this made seven.  Yeah, this was a pretty good gig and I knew the ideas would be comin’.  Billie’s regular job was as a pole dancer at Roxy’s down the road.  What people didn’t know was that Billie was supporting her elderly mother with Alzheimer’s disease.  Workin’ the pole and cookin’ at Fatso’s wasn’t enough for her, she and her two kids helped at a soup kitchen because she wanted her kids to know it was important to give of themselves.  Seems like people should know about someone like that with all the bad news out there.

Well, after fifteen beers Fatso said I had worked long enough.  He asked how my story was goin’ and I told’em, “Fatso, I can’t think of a thing to write about.”  Fatso smiled, “sometimes that’s the way writing goes, I guess.”  “Writer’s block Fatso, (hiccup) writer’s block.”

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