The Will of Leo: Chapter One

I've decided that when I can't get around to writing a new blog entry I'm just simply going to post chapters from my unfinished novel. I haven't touched this baby for years, and these words have been collecting dust in my harddrive for too long, and its time they see the light of the blogoshpere day. So grab a feather duster, sit back, and enjoy the following:

The Will of Leo

Chapter 1

Old Leo had that sign finished before Will Gordon’s black two ton pickup came to a stop in the driveway directly across from Leo’s precious .75 acre lot on which his home sits on its foundation like a sunken ship in a beanbag chair. The sign read in blaze orange paint, Keep Out! Private Property! It was carefully placed next to a tall rod iron gate that wasn’t there, which protected Leo’s estate from damn thieves and vacuum cleaner salesmen. Most of the day, Leo stared into his surveillance monitor, or window, and kept his one good eye on passersby who never came, ready to spring out of his mud porch to curse and yell, “Get the goddam hell out of here!” If you dared stand in front of Leo’s lot long enough to count the signs that in one way or another declared, No Trespassing! you would count twenty-nine. The fresh sign recently placed at the end of his driveway made it an even thirty. Will Gordon didn’t pay much attention to Leo’s dwelling, and the day he moved in began something quite remarkable.
Leo Holmes, of 39 East Hollow Road, was not a contributor to society and was considered by the local folks of Brambush as an old crank with a chip on his shoulder, who mumbled and grumbled and rarely exchanged pleasantries. His home was purchased nearly twenty years ago, and as far as anyone could tell, not a cent was put into it since. There was a time when the end of East Hollow road was to be a new housing development for well-to-do folks, but nothing ever became of it, and no one can explain why the developer, Arthur Fern, abandoned the project suddenly and left town, never to be heard from again. Coincidentally, the Pinkham family, who lived happily in the house across from Leo’s, moved out overnight, abandoning the place, never to be heard from again. The house remained empty for the duration of time between their abrupt departure and Will Gordon’s arrival. It stayed on the market without so much as a bite, and slowly deteriorated with the determined will of time and had recently been up for demolition due to its desperate condition, but was suddenly snatched up by Mr. Gordon, who moved in the following day, without even removing the plywood from the window frames.
Leo, suddenly without preparations, had his first neighbor in seventeen years. Now, there was an actual person living within view, who could look out of their own window and see his property and look for ways to infiltrate it. More signs were needed for sure, but that wouldn’t be enough, and Leo got right down to work.

Open Your Heart to Me, Baby

It’s a good thing I don’t have a green thumb or an afghan to knit. On this little journey of mine to become a freelance writer I am quickly learning how tough it is finding time to write. Between working forty hours, spending quality time with my nice lady, spending quality time with the great outdoors, sleeping, cooking, eating, pooping, and doing the laundry, it gets real tricky trying to squeeze in typing. Consequently, I haven’t posted anything in over a week. Unnacceptable I know. So here I am, at 7:30 in the morning, trying to produce something in one short hour worthy of being read, and already I need more coffee. Let me go warm up my cup, and then I’ll fill you in a bit. That's better. Now my synapses are starting to fire. Let's see where they take me.

On my commute a few mornings ago, I came upon a large snapping turtle, let’s call her Gertie, creeping along a grassy patch of land beside the busy road, a good crawl from the creek. She was brown and about the size of a small charcoal grill lid. I came to a stop and stood there, and watched as Gertie meandered about in no particular fashion and seemingly for no particular purpose other than to go for a walk. It was a stark contrast to the cars that zoomed by, and to my purpose of riding my bicycle, which was to get to work, but watching Gertie take her slow, robotic-like steps slowed the rapid pace of summer down just a bit. I remained watching, on turtle time, while she went about her business, whatever that was, until a minivan pulled over, a head popped out of the window, and asked, “Are you looking at the turtle?” Abruptly thrust back into reality, I said, “I was, yeah,” and then pedaled off. I was slightly annoyed by this interruption paired with a really dumb question, but who knows how long I would’ve been stuck standing there in a turtle vortex. As it turned out, I made it to work on time, so I suppose I should appreciate that head in the minivan.

The next day however, I was quite late. But I had a good reason to be late. My nice Mother-in-law to be and I went with my lovely fiancée to her annual cardiology appointment. She’s had three open-heart surgeries in her lifetime, so once a year, they like to check in on all those valves, chambers and orifices and see what’s new, in hopes that absolutely nothing is new. They started by asking a lot of questions and checking her blood pressure. It was slightly high, as it tends to be, but within the normal range. They then brought out a machine that looked like a mechanical octopus, with many dangling wires like tentacles that were attached to different places on her chest. The rhythmic activities of her heartbeat were displayed as numerous uneven lines on a small monitor, which were then printed out like a stock report for her file. We then went to a second room and met her doctor, who listened to her heart with a stethoscope and then got right down to chatting. Having been my lovely fiancée’s cardiologist for the past sixteen years, she’s kind of like a second mom, so getting caught up on life is as important a part of the appointment as anything else. When I told her that I was prepared to support this aspiring doctor in any way I can while she’s in medical school, she said I’m a keeper. Although I’ve earned the approval of the mom, the dad, and even the “big” brother, it still felt good to earn the approval of another very important person in my fiancée’s life: the role model. We then made our way to the third and final room where they performed a sonogram to really get a good look at that thing. Inside and out, and from every possible angle, we observed one particularly strong heart perfectly doing its job pumping blood throughout that wonderful body of hers.

A lot of people have captured the heart of the one they love, but not everyone can say that they’ve actually seen it. My heart certainly skipped a beat.

I'm Too Sexy for my Shell

In less than three short weeks, my life is going to become a tad more complicated. I'm having a baby! "Pull the other one," you say. Alright then, I'm joining the Army!

Now that I've pulled both of your legs, here is the real deal: I am moving to Burlington, 45 miles away from Montpelier, the nice little capitol city of 8000 people nestled in the bosom of the green mountains of Vermont, where I have lived and worked for the past seven and a half years. My lovely fiancee is about to take the first step on the journey of a thousand miles that is medical school, so we need to be within a closer proximity to her campus. I'm cool with that. In fact, I insisted on it. Bummer we haven't started packing yet.

Where this situation gets complicated, is how I will manage, while paying higher rent and transportation, to support the two of us on my modest income, and still be able to buy beer.

I'm always thinking, and after intense brainstorming, I've decided to make myself available as a male model. After participating in just one fashion show, I've learned, as the picture above clearly illustrates, that I am a natural on the catwalk, and man, what a cushy gig. The way I figure, if I do a few walks a month, I could not only afford beer, I could invest in one of these beauties:

So all you model scouts out there searching for the next male face to represent your line of whatever, give me a call, and with the possibility of a kegerator on the line, I'll even do topless.

Man, What a Difference!

Last weekend, I took a ride on a Specialized Stumpjumper FSR 29er on the Perry Hill trails in Waterbury. Jack, our Specialized rep, was nice enough to drop off the Specialized demo trailer in our parking lot. The trailer was parked next to our shop for a few days, loaded with a fleet of demo bikes. I finally had a chance to take one out for a spin, and I was psyched to be heading to the glorious trail network of Putnam State Forest. It was the first time I’ve ridden a 29er on those trails and man, what a difference! I couldn't believe how much more hip I felt riding a bike with 29” wheels versus one with those antiquated 26ers. Not since I traded in my bar ends for a riser bar have I felt so smug, and let me tell you, it felt pretty darn good. If only I had a Prius to throw it on when I drove away.

I had a great ride, and afterwards, while enjoying a delicious pint of Smuttynose IPA at Waterbury Wings, I thought long and hard about the 29er versus 26er experience and whether the current buzz over 29ers is legitimate or just a bunch of hullabaloo. I thought about every turn, climb, and crash I had taken and wondered, did the 29er turn better? Well, slower. Did it climb better? Compared with my bike, which weighs 35 pounds? Definitely. Did it crash better? Just as good as a 26er, I’d say, but with those noticeably larger wheels spinning in the air, it made for a more dramatic aftermath.

I wanted to be thorough in my assessment and give the 29er a fair trial, so I ordered another pint and kept mulling it over. What about rolling over stuff and greater momentum and all that? Yeah, I think so. I mean, you know, sure, I think. What about the trend factor? Absolutely, without a doubt, I felt trendier. But as trend-conscious as I may be, that couldn’t be the deal breaker. I needed something more concrete. Perhaps this debate was headed for an impasse.

After finishing my second beer, I was able to form at least one solid conclusion: Whether you’re rolling on 26” wheels or 29” wheels, nothing beats a delicious pint of cold beer after a ride.