You just get moments that are absolutely, utterly, inexplicably odd.
― Neil Gaiman
Covert Operation
There are some things you can't explain in a few sentences. The curious may want you to cut to the chase, but when it comes to describing the conundrums of life there are no elevator pitches.
I phoned Tom Sweeney, my publisher, to tell him the happy news about Moll returning from the dead. Two hours later, my ear was hot and red from my cell being pressed to my ear.
Yes, I should have used air buds to avoid brain cancer, but mainly, I should have just texted. I know, I know...pathetic,
But isn't that what normal people do nowadays because time is so precious?
It's weird. In one way life seems to be getting back to normal, but short of holding a press conference how do you retract obituaries and inform every single person who wasn't aware your spouse wasn't cremated?
Just shopping with Moll and bumping into acquaintances can quickly morph into an existential crisis.
It makes me want to avoid all unseemly interrogations and like Hamlet, thaw and resolve into a mist...or dare I quote Prufrock?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
I'm glad though at the moment Moll is shielded from prying eyes. She's renewed her friendship with Julia Rogers and invited her to stay overnight. They have a lot to talk about.
Unfortunately, that leaves me out of the equation, so it's a perfect time for me to reprise Thoreau and retreat to the woods to work on my survival experiment.
The shelter is built and it's endured the pelting of pitiless storms, so now I need to explore the human element―spending the night out there alone to see how I cope with the isolation.
"Are you sure you want to spend the night out there?" Moll asks, "There's another thunderstorm on the way."
"Sure, that's the whole point of the experiment―I can't write about surviving the apocalypse if I don't endure some hardship."
"But what if you get into trouble out there?" Jules asks concerned. "How will we know?"
"Okay, I'll make a concession for practicality and bring along my cell phone. Not to worry, guys, I have it all under control."
"There's all kinds of food in. the fridge," Moll fretted, "and take lots of bottled water and coffee."
"I'm not going to Australia, " I laughed. "You guys have a great girls' night and we'll have breakfast together in the morning."
It was touching the way the two of them waited anxiously in the doorway while I used the flashlight to find my way back to the shelter. When I got there, I turned the light on me and gave the girls a thumbs up and they reluctantly went inside.
Lightning flared in the west, so I quickly went about collecting fallen wood to add to the stack inside the shelter. I just finished and lit a fire when it began coming down in torrents outside.
I had enough firewood to last three days and enough food to feed an army. I wasn't exactly deprived or even roughing it, but it gave me a sense of realism for what it would be like living in an emergency shelter.
Writers have to write what they know so doing my own research was invaluable.
When I opened the picnic hamper I brought, I found the girls had added to my basic provisions. There were several packets of hot chocolate powder, a half dozen croissants, two kinds of cheese and a bottle of cab sav.
Roughing it? I was embarrassed to admit it felt more like having a picnic.
I unrolled the sleeping bag and stretched out before the fire and before long the steady tread of rain made me drowsy and despite my efforts to stay awake, the grumble of distant thunder lulled me to sleep.
I dreamt I was out in the rain walking Star and heading toward the lake. It was night and very misty but as we passed Natalie Brinkman's house, I saw two dark figures loitering outside her window.
As I drew closer I saw it was Bart, her ex, and Jim Claybourne. They were surveilling Nat's house and recording her every move.
I watched from the cover of nearby bushes as they set up cameras as if preparing an elaborate sting operation.
At that moment, lighting flared and both men spotted me. The look on their faces was pure malevolence. I woke up with a start, shaking with fear, convinced the two men would murder me.
I was surprised by the realism of the dream and its deep implications. I suspected some kind of unholy alliance between Jim and Bart but the dream spelled it out in detail.
Obviously, I subconsciously connected certain details my conscious mind didn't acknowledge. I'm not sure if I felt fear of being bullied or was intimidated by the fact they were detectives.
But what I now began to realize was that the toxic culture of the neighbourhood wasn't simply the result of gossip but was actually fuelled by male privilege and misogyny.
Natalie Brinkman was trying to reach out to her neighbours unaware she was hosting a party for a number of men intent on exploiting her and ruining her reputation.
And I couldn't decide what disturbed me most―that I was sickened by their perversion or angered by their bigotry.
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