Terminal Monday, a Dream of New York City

By Lee Edward McIlmoyle

It’s the fall of 2007, and Richard Burley is riding a losing streak. Not only is his marriage on rocky ground, but his writing career has devolved from co-writing one best seller thirteen years ago to writing freelance ad copy for brochures and radio commercials. And he has a dark secret; an under-the-table script doctoring gig he’s doing for some movie producers whose head writer is out on the picket line. The only thing keeping Richard sane is his rock opera, and even that might not be as healthy an outlet as he needs it to be, as it tells the story of a cartoonist who loses everything including his mind.

Then one day, Richard runs into an ex-girlfriend who reminds him that he used to be an ambitious novellist, and introduces him to a group of fellow aspiring authors, which reawakens his desire to write fiction. However, his wife Kara becomes angry at him for associating with the woman who left him for the man who stole the rights to the book series he spawned, and, accusing him of infidelity, sends him packing.

From there, Richard drifts from sofa to sofa and into the arms of one woman after another, trying desperately to reinvent himself and preserve the dwindling remains of his own self-respect, all the while fearing he is being haunted by the ghost of his not-dead, not-yet-ex-wife. He begins having real-life encounters with the characters of his various writing projects, even as the relationships with his friends are eroding. And his fear that the scab movie script project will be discovered finally comes true when he receives an email from an unhappy Edwin McKay, the author and head writer of the movie.

Can Richard save his marriage, revive his writing career, avoid being blacklisted, stage his rock opera and keep his sanity, or will he lose everyone he loves and everything he has worked so hard to build for himself? And if he loses, will he be in any condition to tell the difference?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Edward McIlmoyle
• Release date: Dec 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465964083

Lee Edward McIlmoyle

Writer/Artist/Musician/Cartoonist/activist. Canadian. Married to NYC book reviewer who won't review my books. Two cats, both insane. Help.

Book preview

TERMINAL MONDAY

A novel by Lee Edward McIlmoyle

Book 1 of a Dream of New York City

© 2011 Lee Edward McIlmoyle

second edition July 2016

Published by Lee Edward McIlmoyle at Smashwords

Smashwords License Statement

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATIONS

This novel is dedicated to my loving wife,

Dawn (Iwanowski) McIlmoyle,

for making me believe in love again,

and giving me time to dream bigger dreams.

Also dedicated to my dear friends and loved ones,

and my old band mates from Etcetera,

Derrick, Gary, Dave and Dori,

long may her banner fly.

Table of Contents

Dedications

FOREWORD

01. Richard's Landing

02. Smells Like Snow

03. The Walking and Constantly

04. Evidence of Autumn

05. Abridged

06. Dreams of Angels

07. Monday Morning Blues

08. Clouds and Calm

09. The Storm

10. Down and Out

11. Late Breaking News

12. Catching Up

13. A Different Rhythm

14. Lapping It Up

15. Dinner Conversations

16. Clutching the Short Straw

17. Warm Wet Circles

18. Just Desserts

19. Bottoms Up

20. Asking For Mercy

21. Boys Night Out

22. Setting The Scene

23. Making a Scene

24. A Cold Day

25. A Bridge Too Far

26. In The Lap of Luxury

27. Bottoming Out

28. Uncertain Weather

29. Downward Spiral

30. Losing Ground

31. Nothing Left To Lose

32. Under Observation

33. In The New World

34. Dead Certain

35. For the Record

36. The Main Event

37. What Is Normal?

An Epilogue of Sorts

AFTERWORD

OTHER TITLES

FOREWORD

Just a quick one. I actually have a longer Afterword at the end of the novel where I moved the original Foreword, because it went on a bit, and I didn’t want you to drift away without starting the book. So I’ll just give you two or three short warnings here, and you can read the rest of it if you think you might need to.

1) This is a mammoth work of fiction. There are a number of little details taken from my own life or the lives of close friends, and some of the characters do indeed have the ring of familiarity. However, it IS a work of fiction. These characters, including Richard, are not a bunch of Mary Sues or Gary Stus or whatever you call them. Fiction, very loosely based on stuff I’ve seen and people I’ve known. So, if you think you recognise yourself in this book, I apologise, but it’s not really about you. Just someone a bit like you.

2) There is a lot of sex in this book. Some recreational drug use and a bit of violence, too, though nothing dire. But a lot of sex. Graphic sex. I’d even go so far as to say pornographic, if I didn’t suspect that your idea of pornographic and mine aren’t the same thing. You might be surprised how well-written and appropriate to the scenario the sex in this book is. I make no apologies for the sex. It’s there because it’s needed. I don’t describe every scene. There isn’t a sex scene in every chapter. There are vast swathes of novel with little or no sexual content in them. So probably not the kind of porn you’re thinking of. Erotica is the word literary types like to use for this sort of thing, but hey, between you and me, there isn’t much of that ‘scarlet shaft’ nonsense. This book uses pretty common and sometimes vulgar language to describe what is happening. If you take offense, I apologise. I merely wrote it the way it wanted to be told.

3) This book also contains references to mental illness, and to the mental health industry on a number of occasions. These are purely anecdotal. I am not a medical professional, and I cannot claim that these details are 100% accurate. They are based on things I have learned while dealing with my own mental illness, but should not be regarded as textbook material.

Oh yeah, and THIS BOOK IS DEFINITELY NOT FOR MINORS. If you are a minor reading this book, I ask you to consider telling your parents before you begin, just so I don’t have to explain to them later in court just what you were doing reading my book in the first place.

Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoy the book. Coffee in the lounge after the performance.

Lee Edward McIlmoyle,

Somewhere in Limbo, sipping cold tea and nursing a headache and tennis elbow,

Thursday, December 1st, 2011

1. Richard’s Landing

Divers Alarums

The horn blared incessantly from the street outside their window. It had been going on for some time, and it was pretty clear that no one was going to do anything about it. Richard couldn't decide whether to go out and see if the superintendent knew whose car it was, or if he should just put headphones on and block out the noise completely.

Kara sat at her computer desk and clicked away quietly in the background, seemingly unmoved, but then announced suddenly, If no one shuts that off, I'm going to call the police. She didn't rise to go to the phone, but Richard felt a moment's relief at thinking he wouldn't have to do anything after all.

Time passed, and the horn blared on, until finally Kara turned and said Fuck, how long has that been going on?

Richard turned and replied, I think at least fifteen minutes. They both got up from their chairs and headed for the window. When they pulled back the curtain, Richard noticed something he hadn't the last time he'd looked; there was a minivan with its hood dented in on the driver side. No one was around, and Richard couldn't remember hearing any fender benders before the horn started blaring. He mentioned it to Kara as he slipped on his shoes.

I think he must have hit it while parking, she suggested. He was about to ask which car she meant, when suddenly the horn died out. No one was on the scene, and nothing miraculous had happened to the shape of the van's hood. There was no explanation.

They both sighed with relief, and Richard slipped out of his shoes before sitting back down to work. Kara sat back down, grabbed a pair of scissors, and began clipping the elastics off of the pant cuffs of her favourite sweatpants. She flung one of the elastics at Vlad, who merely looked at her quizzically and went on grooming himself.

Music You Can’t Dance To

The blank page taunted Richard from the text editor application. He had a folder open with text documents, most of which he knew needed work. Song titles he'd been nursing for months and even years, either waiting for him to finish writing the lyrics or finally pen some chords. His rock opera. He laughed inwardly.

His wife was a big fan of musicals, and he couldn't tell whether this was a classic rock opera or a musical. He wondered what the difference was. With Rent and Moulin Rouge being littered with rock songs, and with classic concept album rock operas like The Wall and Tommy having been and gone from the Broadway stage, was there really a difference anymore? Was there a line you crossed when the story you were telling became too theatrical for rock? It didn't seem likely. Richard suspected it came down to whether you started out by hiring theatre people or rock musicians to perform it.

He pulled on the headphones, opened up WinAmp, and stabbed blindly at any song on the list. Ironically, it was 'Dick Around' by Sparks. He groaned inwardly and started opening documents in EditPad until he came to one that he'd forgotten; a short piece called Moments.

Everything you know could fill a thimble in time

All the things you're ever going to do

Memories of a lifetime on the edge of reason

Grasping at illusions for just one thing that's true.

It never comes easy unless it comes too easily

It's always feast or famine in this life

To find a sense of meaning is a luxury, they say

The only dish they serve is pain with strife.

But if memory's a luxury

Then I'm fit to be a king

I've seen more than my share

Though I can't explain anything.

All I know for sure is that

You have to be in the event

And all of your careful plans

Dissolve into solitary moments.

Richard wasn't completely certain what he'd been trying to accomplish with that piece. He knew there was a soliloquy where the protagonist had to reflect on everything that had led up to that moment. He knew the protagonist was trying to rationalize away doing something unforgivable. But rather than drawing it out and talking about the problem directly, he'd decided to go for profundity instead. There was something slightly Shakespearean about it, one of those artistic flourishes he was sure the critics would shred to pieces for being pretentious. Despite that, his guts told him that the scene needed a sense of elevation, not a lengthy rationalization.

He'd tried to get this lyric to hit what he was trying to say with it a few times, and the last time he'd completed something that he felt was in the neighbourhood of what he'd been trying for. But it lacked something. He hoped it was just music.

The Paying Gig

He was just about to get up and grab his guitar when his wife tapped his shoulder and indicated the script she had sitting on her screen.

Taking off his headset, he looked at her and she said, It's done. I edited the entire thing. Now look it over and make sure you like what I did to it.

Thank you. I'm sure that was loads of fun for you.

Hell yeah, that was more fun than six chimps in a duffel bag.

I'll pay you back by making dinner tonight.

No thank you. I'm not in the mood for yet another pasta dish. I'll cook tonight, you can do the dishes, and while you do that, you can think of the lovely jewellery you still owe me for building your website.

Of course, dear.

Trying not to think about where he was going to get the money to buy a ring or a necklace right that moment, he opened an Explorer window and searched for her Shared Docs on Baby folder on the network. There, nestled between a recipe for Chicken Fried Steak and a file containing the 3D model data of her level 70 Orc Warlock, was an .fdr file containing her script revisions for Dead Certainty. He opened it up in Final Draft and started scanning the pages, but the words were just swimming past him.

Getting up, he walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He pulled out his large mug and poured milk and a spoon of sugar into it, and deposited two teabags on top. Walking back to the living room, He saw Kara was surfing random websites using StumbleUpon, a toy she'd recently discovered and subsequently turned him on to. She was looking at a webpage filled with black and white photos from the turn of the Twentieth Century, old postcard images of Coney Island and scandalously underdressed women provocatively displaying their not quite bared bosoms. Every couple of minutes she made a noise that he had long since learned to translate as 'amused and interested', so he left her to it. He was reasonably sure she was more interested in the anecdotes than the breasts, since she had stated on more than one occasion that she didn't go that way.

Returning to the kitchen for his boiling kettle, he poured himself a large cup of tea and gave it a stir before returning to his desk. He still didn't know what he wanted to do. He minimized 'Moments', put on his headphones, maximized WinAmp, restarted his theme song, and returned to the script.

He'd picked up the job doctoring the movie script as unsigned scab work when the original writer had recently joined the picket line. Richard wasn't a unionized scriptwriter, and though he believed that the writers were striking for a good cause, he needed the money. He just kept telling himself that his name would never appear on the film, and that it might open a few doors for him with the studios down the road. He figured it wouldn't be too hard to massage the original script into something the director could reassure the producers with.

The story was a bit complex for a summer thriller, and utilized a lot of information involving PDAs, which Richard hadn't really researched much before getting the script. He'd owned one himself, and though he thought about getting one so he could work away from home, he figured he'd rather just get a laptop with a real keyboard.

Still, the story was engrossing, and he figured Edwin McCay probably knew a lot about the subject, since he had also written the novel that the script was being adapted from. Richard was mystified as to how the man got tapped to write the screenplay for his own novel, but he supposed that in this day and age, novel writers were becoming more involved in screen adaptations than they had been when he was growing up. At least, he didn't remember reading a lot about novelists writing screenplays when he was young; although he did recall reading about authors bemoaning the fact that screenwriters never got it right. He supposed that modern writers had clauses written into their film rights agreements stipulating how much input they were to have in any adaptation, and that famous writers could get more control than they used to. Whether this made for better films was anybody's guess, but Richard supposed it helped.

Infinite Jest

Richard took a sip of his tea, stopped the music when Sparks proved to be too frenetic for him to maintain focus, and switched to some classic Genesis. Then he started reading the script for the tenth time. This was always the hardest part for him. Rereading anything he worked on always made his eyes bleed, which was why a lot of his written work never got finished. He usually had to let a thing sit for months and even years before he had the strength to go back in and finish editing and rewriting.

This was exactly the stage where The Infinite Jest, his latest attempt at writing a science fiction novel, was at. He'd started writing it almost three years ago, wrote thirty six thousand words, started a teaser chapter for the next act, and then stopped working on it entirely. Then at the beginning of the New Year, he sat down and forced himself to focus on getting it finished. This took him a couple of months, but towards the end, he'd really been plugging away at it like a pro. The problem was, the day after he finished it, he realized he had to do a lot of serious editing and rewriting to get it up to snuff before he could submit it. Nothing his beta readers said could convince him otherwise. And then he let it sit for months. He'd mulled over and poked at it lamely a few times, and promised himself he'd have it done by the end of the year. Looking at the calendar, he realized time was running out, and he had other projects that needed to get done first.

Like this movie script. And his rock opera. He'd wanted to write a rock opera for years. Even started one ages ago when he was a lot younger and more dedicated to music. Writing movie scripts also appealed to him, but he hadn't seriously considered it as a profession until he needed to get paid to keep working on his own stuff. Writing was always something he could do pretty well in any format, and he figured it might lead to him writing his own scripts someday. Still, he wasn't sure he could get into this story when he had his own stuff calling to him from the wings, or the next toolbar icon over, as it were.

Another sip of tea. Phil Collins was singing about withered leaves, and a message popped up from Gmail. Bruno had responded to his comment from yesterday. Felt like a good time to blog something. Procrastination was a dear old friend of Richard's.

He opened BlogDesk and rambled briefly to his WordPress about where his rock opera was at, posting a piece of lyric for his readers. He carefully avoided mentioning anything about the movie script. Many of their blogs were littered with references to the writer's strike, and he knew it would go down badly if he admitted to doing dirty work for the studios.

He browsed FeedReader and found a post by Johnny Sputnik, a musician friend who had received another broken Tascam four track through eBay. Deciding this was something he could help with, he mentioned to his friend that, if he were willing to settle with a downgrade from Tascam, he could send Johnny his old Fostex to help him finish his project. Johnny responded a moment later thanking him, and asked to keep that as a backup plan. Richard crossed the room and dusted off the old multi-track unit just in case, and then set it back under the keyboard, where it had been living for many months.

Sending Johnny the four-track would only be a minor inconvenience to Richard, since he had gone digital and bought a 16 track with more bells and whistles than he knew what to do with. He'd been slowly converting the old jam tapes and demo recordings to digital files for a couple of years now using a tool his wife had bought him, and hadn't seriously used the four track for anything since the last band practice, which was a year and a half ago. He wasn't planning on ever using the four track again, so giving it a good home where he knew it would get used just seemed like the right thing to do.

Richard nearly made it back to his seat when Kara turned to him and asked, Can you take Vlad for his run? He shrugged noncommittally and started pulling on his black sweater, reaching for his shoes even as she crept up on him and gave him a kiss.

Thank you, she said.

Not really meaning to offend, he chose to say nothing. His frustration at not being able to focus on doing his work wasn't her fault. Taking the scab gig wasn't her fault either. It was an opportunity his manager had dug up for him, and even though he felt weird about it, he tried not to think about it too much. Instead, he just remembered the thirty thousand dollar credit card debt he had no other way of paying, and the fact that he hadn't paid his taxes yet.

Cat Walk

Vlad's usual routine was to loop around the parking lot, paying close attention to the lawns and bushes throughout the building complex. Today was a little bit different. As soon as they hit the sidewalk, Vlad stopped in his tracks and listened to the sound of the circular saw coming from apartment ten upstairs. It was long moments before the cat finally got over his fear of the sporadic noises and began his circuit of the complex, but for quite a while after that, Richard kept thinking about apartment ten.

Years before he had met Kara and married her, he had lived in apartment ten himself. This was back in the days when he was an amateur musician and songwriter. He'd been alone most of the time in those days, and though they seemed to stretch on like years back then, he sometimes missed how productive and focussed he felt back then. Life had become so complicated in recent years, and he couldn't quite pin down when and where it started.

There had been an engagement to a woman he'd met online years before Kara; an editor who really got Richard thinking seriously about writing again. He'd started toying with some old story ideas to see if any of them had legs, but ultimately decided to start fresh. Sadly, the engagement had ended badly, and he rarely spoke to her anymore. Sometimes this too bothered him, but he'd gotten used to loss over the years. He wondered when he'd gotten so inured to failure.

A coloured gentleman he had seen around the complex many times had just parked his mocha coloured minivan and started walking up the steps to their building. When he saw the cat on a leash, the man spoke for the first time, in a thick Jamaican patois, saying, You can't walk a cat on a leash, man. A dog, sure, but not a cat.

Richard shrugged and replied, My wife seems to think so. He knew she wouldn’t appreciate being blamed, but he couldn't think of a simpler explanation. Sadly, this wasn't good enough for the old man.

Is it a he or a she?

Oh Vlad's a he.

I couldn't tell what sex he was. But you shouldn't have him on a leash, man. You should keep him inside.

He needs his outdoor time or he starts tearing the place apart.

You should get him a cat toy that moves.

He goes through those pretty quick. He's fussy.

The old man shrugged slightly and went inside, and Vlad had in the meantime managed to make his way around the corner, so Richard hurried to catch up. It was time to pounce the lawns and dig up the super's bushes again. The sawing upstairs continued intermittently, but the biggest disturbance was the city bus whizzing by the apartment complex. Vlad was pretty good about cars so long as they kept their distance, but busses and trucks sent him sprinting for cover. Richard had to rein him in several times between lawn pounces.

They hadn't been out for a half hour when the late autumn chill finally started to get to him, so Richard picked up Vlad and carried him back inside. He deposited Vlad on Kara's desk, and she turned to help remove his harness. After Richard hung it on the back of the door, he sat down once more and donned his headphones.

Union Blues

This time, he didn't even manage to get the music turned on before he heard video clips being played on Kara's computer, accessed from the United Hollywood blog. He knew this was Kara getting a dig at him for taking the job. She'd strongly disapproved from the start, and the argument had left them in silence for days. When she finally deigned to talk to him again, it was to offer to edit the script for him, because she knew, 'no one else will touch it for you'. Since then, it had been an uneasy truce, but one he was happy to have.

He turned the music up loud and tried to focus on the script. Phil chose that moment to start singing about a lonely man who had become convinced that he had relationships with the people on his television set. Bastard.

2. Smells Like Snow

Happy Associations

Richard stroked at the scraggly hairs on his cheek as he read over the script. He tried not to think about the fact that, even at the age of 36, he couldn't grow a full beard. Just a touch too much Native blood, apparently. He could grow most of a goatee, but could never get all the ends to connect, and growing anything more than that always made him look and feel like his face was dirty. He didn't know why he was trying to grow it now.

Looking in the mirror lately had become increasingly difficult, because he saw someone completely different from the young man he used to know so well, but he could still see vestigial signs of that former life. For some reason, it bothered him seeing even that much. Richard had some wistful remembrances, but he mostly remembered all of the things he had done wrong in his life, so he wasn't given to a lot of sentimentality about his past. It came as a surprise to him that he would attach so much importance to the way he used to look when he was younger, given how miserable he was in his youth.

The shabby beginnings of a beard weren't helping to erase comparisons, but he was determined to change something, and it was too late in the year to think about cutting his hair. The autumn nights were starting to get quite cool, and he liked to have enough hair to cover his neck and ears during the winter months.

Kara opened the windows to let out the faint smoke still filling the air from a slightly disastrous attempt to make quesadillas in the oven with the new pizza stone. It smells like snow, she chimed, knowing this would please him.

Yes, I think it's going to snow tonight, he replied. Snow always made him feel safe and still. It was the time when the world slowed down for a few months and gave him time to catch his breath, reassess how things had gone, and try to figure out what his next steps would be. Richard had mentioned to Marcia, his friend and the erstwhile producer of his rock opera, that he'd not realized how much he loved snow until his mid-twenties. It probably helped that he didn't drive, but he had many happy associations with snow fall and the stately procession things seemed to move in at the end of the year.

Keep It Dark

Phil was singing about a man who mysteriously returned without an explanation after having been missing for a time. That seemed to fit with what he was reading, as the man in the story also returned home unannounced after having been missing for a period of weeks. Of course, the lyrics to Keep It Dark told a story about having been captured by kidnappers who thought they could extort money from him until they realized he was broke. In a typical bit of whimsy, it seems the criminals decided to set the man free with no further trouble, except for the messy bit about getting his face removed from milk cartons everywhere.

By way of comparison, the extortionists in the movie screenplay were government agents, and had no intentions of letting him go free just because he wasn't the person they were looking for. However, as these movies often go, they had made the mistake of accusing someone who, though innocent, was quite capable of doing exactly what they accused him of and worse. In this case, while he wasn't some ex-Navy SEAL or Green Beret, he was in fact a retired world class hacker who also conveniently had taken martial arts for years, most likely to protect himself from bullies in school or something like that. Hackers kick ass, it seems. It would make a good movie vehicle for Jason Statham or Ben Affleck, he thought.

The references to other thrillers were mostly pretty subtle in the original script, but of course, the movie execs had asked that the action sequences and the romance be amplified in the final shooting script. It seems that, while the author had managed to sell the novel quite respectably, the story just didn't have enough sex and violence in it. Oddly enough, the movie script they'd sent him to fix read exactly like the kind of movie Richard loved to collect. However, if the film wasn't helmed by Robert Redford, the rule seemed to be to substitute government conspiracies with explosives and tits. Another thing he tried not to think too much about.

He reached up beside his desk and pulled his blue cardigan down from the side of a rickety wooden shelf. The cool evening air had done the job of clearing the apartment of smoke, but it was getting a bit chilly, and the familiar ache in his back was returning. The last thing the doctors had told him was that there was some slight deterioration of the disks in his spine, but that it wasn't anything to worry about. Somehow, the continuing pain and stiffness refuted such reassurances. Days like these, he wished they had made it to that CT scan appointment after all. He wasn't sure what it would cost him if he tried setting up one without his Doctor's referral.

In The Old Country

Richard skipped ahead a few dozen pages to the scene he'd had to rewrite and expand from the original. The tension had dissipated when the protagonist's contact slipped a palm pilot under the bathroom stall for him to upload files directly to his blackberry. Richard had worked in a scene with one of the agents who had been tracking him from the States, and also wrote in a sequence with the agents overseeing the operation from a temporary headquarters in Berlin. Phil was singing about a lonely man on a corner, and the man in the story was walking on a quiet city street by a river somewhere in Prague, a city Richard had never been to, and had to look up maps online to make sure he knew where the river was. He had no idea if there was a lamp post on a street corner off the Masarykovo nebrezi on the Vltava. Times like these, he feared his ignorance would show through far too much.

EXT. VLTAVA RIVER PRAGUE -- NIGHT

TROY BAUMAN runs across the bridge and slows to a walk. Breathing heavy.

Walks in darkness along riverside -- looks around furtively -- trying to look calm.

Troy stops and leans against railing post. Takes out PDA. No message

from CHIMAERA. Irritated. Walks in direction of National Theatre.

CAMERA cranes up and zooms on theatre.

EXT. NATIONAL THEATRE PRAGUE -- NIGHT

Couples and families entering. Cars passing slowly.

FOCUS on AGENT TAGGERT speaking to doorman. Taggert looks to

AGENT FALSTAFF, nods. Falstaff enters theatre alone.

INT. NATIONAL THEATRE PRAGUE -- NIGHT

Well dressed couples and some children milling through halls. Ushers

check tickets, give directions.

CAMERA follows family through doorway into concert hall. CAMERA leaves

family and turns to face box seats above.

Sweep across to find Chimaera seated alone. He is watching the crowd

enter the hall.

CHIMAERA POV

Palm Pilot in hand. Focus on screen. Message addressed to SPARTAN.

PALM PILOT: 'Henry's hound has come'.

Chimaera's thumb poised on Send button.

Chimaera sits up. Man in crowd below looks familiar. Chimaera tracks

visually. Man looks furtively up at boxes. Chimaera lifts hand slightly to

signal. Man spots woman and embraces. Chimaera relaxes.

Falstaff slips into seat next to Chimaera. Chimaera presses send

button and pockets palm pilot.

FALSTAFF: [In Czech] You look as if you just lost a bet.

CHIMAERA: [In Czech] I think I may have. You look nothing like a statuesque blonde.

Breasts are too small. This will not do at all.

FALSTAFF: [In Czech] Sorry to disappoint you. Shall I go find her for you?

CHIMAERA: [In Czech] Would you? That would be so kind of you. I am a very

lonely man.

FALSTAFF: [In Czech] In that case, perhaps I should stay and keep you company

until she arrives.

CHIMAERA: [In Moravian] How thoughtful of you.

Chimaera smiles painfully at Falstaff. Falstaff smiles victoriously.

EXT. NATIONAL THEATRE PRAGUE -- Night

TROY is approaching steps. PDA vibrates. TROY stops to answer message.

Message reads 'Henry's hound has come'.

Answers 'Hate that scene. Will join you after intermission.' Sends.

Takes out and looks down at ticket. Performance of Tosca this evening.

TROY: [mutters] I hate fucking opera.

Turns and heads toward back of theatre.

INT. STATION OZYMANDIUS DARK ROOM BERLIN -- NIGHT

Communications room -- walls lined with hastily installed multiple flat screens

flashing images from news sources, security cameras, internet pages, sound

files of voice recordings, emails and messages sent via mobile phones and PDAs.

Over a dozen agents seated in front of computer terminals, mining the data

being flashed on the screens above.

Thin man dressed in slightly rumpled shirt, tie and slacks is prowling the room

along a walkway beneath flashing screens, periodically glowering at crew.

Standing alone near the back is a woman in an expensive lady executive's

business suit. She is scanning the screens ahead quietly, looking for something.

FOCUS ON LIZ ROEBUCK'S EYES FROM 3/4 PROFILE -- Eyes darting constantly.

AGENT ROEBUCK steps forward and taps surfing agent on shoulder.

AGENT ROEBUCK: Bring that message back, Taylor.

AGENT TAYLOR: Yes, sir.

AGENT ROEBUCK: Ma'am.

AGENT TAYLOR: Yes, Ma'am. Message on the screen.

AGENT ROEBUCK: Thank you. Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like you to note the

message on center screen. A communication from one Chimaera to one Spartan.

Would anyone care to read it to me?

Man at the front of the room looks up impatiently and turns on Roebuck.

AGENT PORTER: You forget to bring your glasses tonight, Liz?

ROEBUCK: I'm wearing contacts tonight, Larry. I can see just fine. I presume you

aren't just bluffing because you forgot yours.

PORTER: It says 'Henry's hound has come'. And this is relevant how?

ROEBUCK: Well, if you had bothered to read any Shakespeare, you'd know that

King Henry the Fifth's right hand man was a knight named Falstaff. We already

have confirmation that Agent Falstaff has had visual confirmation of Troy Bauman's

contact, Karel Vleidt. From this missive, I am led to believe that Vleidt had

some idea that Falstaff was looking for him. Could someone please explain how that

might have happened?

A moment of tension passes. Agents look amongst themselves suspiciously. PORTER

looks irritated.

PORTER: Alright, so Vleidt got a message out. So what? Bauman can't get to

Vleidt without Falstaff catching him, but he can't leave Prague without contacting

someone who can give him the database. If Vleidt has it, Falstaff will get it from

him shortly. We just need to wait for Bauman to get desperate enough to come inside.

ROEBUCK: If he comes in.

PORTER: When he comes in. They have no other point of contact in the real world.

They're geeks. They only know each other over the internet. If they don't meet tonight,

they'll just try to set up another meet, or Vleidt will arrange for another contact.

ROEBUCK: Vleidt knows we're watching his communications. He knew not to name

Jim directly, and took a risk that a Shakespeare reference would slip past us. How did

he know Bauman would catch the reference?

PORTER: Maybe they were in a book club together. Who cares? Bauman has to come.

ROEBUCK: He might bolt.

PORTER: He's got nowhere else to go, Liz. His face is starting to appear in every city's

Most Wanted ads.

ROEBUCK: We don't know how many other contacts he has. I want a complete profile

on the username Spartan. Search mythology groups, history discussion groups,

literary groups, computer tech groups, martial arts chat groups, and any group that

shares information about foreign security. He's been evading us for over a week. He

knows how to use the system against us, folks. Smarten up.

PORTER: Okay. Also, I want Intel on airport and train ticket sales to anyone using

literary references for ID. Cross reference from Wikipedia if you have to. I also want car

rentals. Anything that can get a man out of Prague in under 24 hours. He has to have a

plan, folks. Time we learned what it was. And find me more security feeds. You can't

take a shit without getting it on camera these days. He's not David Copperfield. Call me

when someone finds something useful.

The room is bustling with activity. Porter walks past Roebuck and smiles insincerely.

Roebuck stays behind, watching the screens.

Richard continued reading for a few more lines to make sure his scenes gelled with the older material. He noted some of the changes that Kara had made, but for a change didn't care enough to fuss over them. He liked some of the work he'd put in, polishing up scenes and timing and writing in segments that ratcheted up the tension. However, he was getting anxious to get it sent in and get paid. The longer he worked on it, the more he worried he'd be found out.

Hollywood Logic

He scanned ahead to the scene in Venice with Nina in the hotel room. It was one of the scenes that Richard had been instructed to 'hot up'. He figured the sexual tension between them was enough to go on, but the suits wanted passion, so he worked it up into a sweaty love sequence. He worried that it might feel a little bit tacked on, and thought perhaps he should have another go at the script, just to make the love scene feel more necessary, more imminent.

The Hollywood logic of old was that, when a male and female lead were forced to work together under dangerous and insurmountable odds, they often became romantically and sexually excited by one another. After forty years of Hollywood teaching us that new couples always wait until the end of the film to kiss, it had learned that potential couples who had adventures together might need to have sex to blow off some steam before the final encounter. Not every movie had one, but any movie with testosterone and more than one private moment between the male and female leads always led to sex. If it was a James Bond film, this opened the door to an early death, as well. Nothing like a girlfriend dying to get a rise out of a professional killer, it seemed.

Richard's problem was that the woman in question had no direct contact with the protagonist before meeting in the film. He almost suspected he needed to write in something involving some previously built up personal relationship between them, but back history in a two hour movie would probably make the producers wince, since they had already made McCay take out any past references to her in the original script. In the novel, Troy and Nina had attended college together, but the director didn't want the extra baggage slowing up the pace of the film. Apparently, any relationship older than the protagonist's underwear was detrimental to action film timing.

Turning to ask Kara what she thought, he found her reading a website archive of letters from John Adams to his wife Abigail during his time in Congress trying to get the Declaration of Independence together. He felt like a voyeur reading over her shoulder, and decided to leave her be. Talking to her about the script usually irritated her anyway.

Instead, he pulled WinAmp back up and scrolled the playlist back to the Peter Gabriel era. Peter opening up plaintively singing the title to 'Looking For Someone' helped clear his mental palette a bit. Still, he didn't have enough perspective. So he paused the song and got up.

Kara looked quizzically in his direction as he slipped into his shoes again, so he answered, Just going for a short walk. I'll be right back, and finished getting dressed. She nodded and turned back to her reading. Vlad headed for the door as well, but Richard stopped him with a foot and said no. This didn't sit well with the cat, but gave him an opportunity to glower, which usually did.

3. The Walking and Constantly

Go Amongst Madmen

Out on Park Lane, the slight chill cooled his face, and he buttoned up his sweater beneath his long grey coat. He turned east and started walking in the direction of his favourite part of the park, on the other side of Woodhaven Boulevard. As he got close to the State Assembly building, he noticed a woman dressed in a cheap tee shirt and pants walk out into the street and lay down crosswise. Two cars approaching from the west swerved gracefully around her. Richard thought to ask what she was doing, but she sat back up slowly and got to her feet, walking back towards the co-op buildings before he reached her. He tried to memorize her features, but he never saw her face, and wasn't sure how young or old she was from her body shape, hidden beneath her ill-fitting clothes.

As he walked, he wondered what her malady was, suspecting she'd be a perfect fit for his rock opera. His hero, Stewart, was a cartoonist who suffered from schizoaffective episodes where he imagined himself a conquistador of the Spanish Armada invading Peru. Stewart had a series of misadventures throughout the story, but one of the things Richard hadn't quite sorted out was his romantic life. He starts the story living with a woman named Claire, who worries for him and tries to convince him to seek help, until finally she gives up and leaves him. He goes into a tailspin after she leaves, and has trouble interacting with people for a while, and winds up spending a night in jail after having a meltdown in a department store. The judge insists that he be put in an institution for psychiatric evaluation, but the state can't justify keeping him inside. Instead, they prescribe medication for him and send him back out into the world.

Richard knew that one of the things he needed to do next with Stewart was try to get him re-established as a professional cartoonist, but he also wanted to get him involved with a woman who herself had some serious mental problems. However, every time he tried to think about the woman, he couldn't quite work out in his mind how she'd behave. Richard had met more than a few disturbed women in his life, but he hadn't really gotten to know any of them well enough to understand what had been wrong with them. He was a student of humanity, but mental illness confused him. He himself was slightly bipolar, and had always been a little leery of spending time around people who were unhealthier than him.

Back On Point

Richard realized he was thinking too much about the rock opera and decided to force himself to think more about the movie script. He noticed that the sun was setting in the early evening sky, which reminded him that the year was nearing an end. He picked up bits of ad copy writing and the occasional bit of technical writing throughout the year to pay the bills, but looked forward to the day when he could afford to dedicate himself solely to non-commercial writing. He thought about that fallacy for a second, realizing that all of his writing was intended for a commercial market of one sort or another. He supposed he just wanted to be able to stop using words to sell foot ointment or give directions on how to program a microwave clock.

Lover’s Knot

Richard thought about the plot of the movie script, and how McCay had decided to introduce a romantic interest without building their relationship beyond the indeterminate past they shared in the novel. Richard supposed that McCay had intended to refine the relationship during the rewrites, but got cut short by the strike. There really weren't too many scenes in the movie where the intended paramours really exchanged words of love. The script was fairly linear, and the few plot twists that occurred were mainly between Bauman and Portman, who seemed to be protecting some sort of secret from everyone including Roebuck.

The information everyone was scrambling to keep secret was a carefully detailed report that outlined all of the powers and activities of Achilles, a covert intelligence group assigned to screen and analyze every electronic communication made by all American citizens at home and abroad. The whole premise was so high-flown that Richard supposed even McCay realized it needed some human interest to keep readers from putting it down. He didn't know if McCay always wrote like a conspiracy nut, but he didn't think the man had become a best-selling author by forgetting to write actual characters to drape over his retread paranoia plots on. When he found more time, Richard promised himself that he'd actually sit down and read more of McCay's work.

Still, the sex scene seemed inelegant to Richard. He'd tried to write it tastefully, and he supposed Kara would have edited it mercilessly if she thought it had gone too far or was too masculine or mechanical. He tried to think back to the earlier parts of the script where Bauman had communicated with people electronically, and tried to imagine if there were any missed opportunities to establish a romantic link between Bauman and Nina. There wasn't much opportunity to redeem the relationship after the sex scene, because she disappeared shortly thereafter, with only a news report suggesting she was found and quietly murdered. The protagonist was on the run, and didn't have the opportunity to track her down again to make sure she was alright until the credits roll.

It occurred to him that there were only about a dozen scene changes between their meeting in person and her taking off her blouse. Two of those scenes featured Roebuck reading through the files on Bauman and getting a better idea of why they'd accused him in the first place. One was with Porter and a team of agents investigating Bauman's apartment in Vienna. That left nine scenes, five of which Bauman spends trying to track down the mysterious hacker who sent him the report to begin with. Four scenes left to establish a romantic link strong enough to lead to sex. Somehow, that didn't sound like nearly enough.

This was probably not as big a deal as he was making it, but these things bothered him. In his head, even casual, stress-relieving sex had to have some meaning for it to be valid to the plot, and not just a means to sneak in some soft pornography. He didn't want to waste a lot of time on this. His name wasn't going to be on this. The script was going to be attributed to a Hollywood pseudonym. It was just his professional pride that was getting in the way. Why do it if he couldn't take at least some pride in his work? There were other jobs out there, somewhere.

Ladies In The Park

Richard crossed the street and entered Forest Park. He followed the path as it wended its way northwest towards the playground. As he entered the playground, he noticed two women sitting on a park bench at the far end. He started to steer around the far side of the play set when one of them called out to him.

Ritchie, is that you?

Looking through the waning light of the sunset to see who was addressing him, he saw one of the women looking at the other and mouthing 'who's that'. The other, who was looking directly at him and grinning, looked somewhat familiar. Richard was terrible with people if he hadn't seen them in a while, but he decided to be polite and approached.

Well, I haven't heard anyone call me that in a number of years. I hope you'll forgive me... Then he saw her face clearly, and it clicked. Wanda Sumner. They'd dated back in college, but had split up after he dropped out of NYU and she went on to get her BA in Literature. She'd changed her hair and put on a few very welcome pounds, but she still had that electric gaze and 100-watt smile.

Don't you remember me, Ritchie? It's...

...Wanda. I haven't forgotten you yet, dear. How have you been? It's been what, sixteen years?

Yes, I suppose it has. Not the most delicate way to tell a woman she's getting old, you know.

Actually, I was marvelling more at my ability to remember anything further back than last week. You look wonderful. And who is this nice lady we're rudely excluding?

Oh! This is my partner, Candice Molner. Candice, this is Richard Burley, the writer I mentioned in our workshop a couple of weeks ago. Did you ever finish that science fiction series you were working on, Richie?

Yes and no. I finished plotting it out and then decided it was too much like a bad Robert Anton Wilson knock-off and shelved it. I started writing short stories and graphic novels, but I mainly make a living writing ad copy these days.

That's a shame. I really enjoyed your late night readings. I thought you were brilliant.

Candice piped in, Are you working on anything new?

Richard smiled a little and said, One or two things. I usually have a couple of projects on the go, even when I'm working on paying gigs.

Wanda bounced and exclaimed, Oh Ritchie, you should really come out to the workshop. There are a number of really good writers there this year, talking over their latest projects and offering critiques. I'll bet it would be just the challenge you need to get your work finished and published.

Well, I don't really have time these days...

We have them every other Saturday for about three hours. I'll bet you could manage to take that much time off to come talk to other writers. You were always too insular.

I'd have to discuss it with my wife...

Oh! You got married! That's great! Wanda's expression was hard to read, but she recovered quickly. Still, I bet she'd love to have you out of the house for a few hours. Here. Take this card and call me tomorrow. We'll have lunch and I'll bring a flyer for the next workshop session. Better yet, give me your card, so I can remind you. You never could keep a schedule.

Well, I'm a bit better than that these days. And anyway, I don't think I brought my wallet.

Oh Ritchie, what are we going to do with you? Let me get my blackberry. She reached into her pocket and pulled up her PDA and started prodding at the keys. Okay, let's have that phone number. Do you have an email address I can reach you at?

Yes. 718-296-3607. Richard dot Burley at Connectopia dot com. That's spelled C-...

I remember how to spell Connectopia. I edited enough of your manuscripts back then. Do you have any of your work on your website?

Yes. I put the plot notes for the old trilogy up there. I've also put some newer work up, and I keep a section for my more commercial stuff as well. I think the comic book scripts get the most traffic.

Wonderful. We'll have to open a bottle and have a look at that tonight.

Candice tapped Wanda on the shoulder and pointed at the clock on the screen.

Oh fuck! Is that how late it is? We were supposed to be at Terry's by seven. Let me just call and make sure she's there now.

Okay Wanda, I should get going. Candice, nice meeting you. Have a nice evening, ladies.

Ritchie, wait a second. Wanda bounced to her feet and threw her arms around him, kissing him on the cheek. She leaned back in his arms and looked him straight in the eyes. You will call, won't you?

I'll call. I don't know if I'll be able to get away, but I'll call to let you know, in any case. Richard smiled weakly and tried not to let how wonderful she felt next to him show on his face. A grin briefly crossed her face, and he suspected she'd spotted it anyway.

Well, if you don't call, I'll start hounding you until you relent. Don't make me do it, Ritchie. You'll have a terrible time explaining to your wife.

I'm sure I would. Okay, I'll call. Goodnight, Wanda.

Before he could slip out of her grasp, she quickly leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips, and then laughed and turned back to Candice. Candice stepped forward and offered her hand, which Richard squeezed warmly. He stood and watched them head off out of the park, Wanda talking on her Blackberry as she went. He wondered for an instant what they had been doing in this part of town so late in the day, and made a mental note to ask her sometime.

The Forest for the Trees

As his head filled with the memories of sights and sounds and smells forgotten, he headed deeper into the park. Self-conscious of the weight he'd gained in the last few years, he found the breathing space this empty path afforded him to be more than adequate.

Walking in the gathering gloom, he could still make out the trees that had been successfully shedding their leaves without his guidance for at least a month. He realized that he hadn't been out for one of these late night walks in a while. Perhaps Wanda was right; he had become a shut-in. He couldn't imagine how a writer's workshop could help that, and he doubted he'd go.

Still, it had been nice seeing her again after all this time. And with a woman. Wanda had been experimental in college, but he hadn't imagined her becoming a lesbian. Perhaps he had it wrong, and Candice simply was a business partner. Or perhaps not. They had looked quite a bit like a couple to him. Incredible. He must be getting old.

Shaking his head, he tried to get back to thinking about the movie script. He didn't suppose he'd be telling Wanda about that project any time soon. It had been a long time, and she probably wasn't as idealistic as she had been back then, but he doubted she'd approve of him working on anyone else's script, strike or no strike.

He was no closer to an answer about the sex scene by the time he reached the part of the path that crossed Forest Park Drive and sank into a deeper darkness on the other side. He thought for a moment about whether he should return home, but concluded that he needed more time to think.

4. Evidence of Autumn

The Party

He skirted quickly across the street before the next volley of cars sped past, and headed for the entrance to the longest part of the trail. The sound and feel of the path under his feet flipped a switch in his mind, and for a moment, he was transported to other times when he had also walked this path.

He hadn't walked its entire length since he was in his mid-twenties, when he was heading to a party being held in the slightly unfinished mansion of a former homegrown rock star. He'd ridden the entire length on his twelve speed bicycle in the near total dark, and had been surprised at how many people actually walked the path in the dead of night. He learned that it was possible to drive even in near darkness, so long as you paid attention to the deeper shadows and listened for voices ahead. He also learned that reclusive former rock stars had a taste for buying up old farm property to build awkward mansions on, which took hours and miles to find, even with an address and directions.

The party itself had been a little like something out of an Eighties coming of age movie, with a grand piano in the foyer, a loft over the sound room in the basement recording studio (where special friends went to get stoned or fuck), and rooms full of inebriated teenagers trying to be cool. He'd been invited by a friend who was crashing there, and who was doing DJ duty that night. His friend had gotten him stoned on mushrooms and left him to wander the estate, getting into strange misadventures and generally being the odd man out. He'd learned that his buddy had a strange taste in women; that the rave culture was full of kids who didn't live in the real world; and that he couldn't play a Bosendorfer Grand for love or money.

On Account of Rain

He never rode his bike along the path again, but he did take walks there on more than a few occasions. Most of those walks were solitary, but he'd also had some memorable walks with friends. He'd once walked the path with Dana and Randy, two of the closest friends he had through his twenties. He'd known them both for years, and had even been sexually involved with both of them, although never together, which had once been a not-very-carefully-concealed fantasy of his.

They had come over from their Woodhaven apartment to draw him out for a walk on a beautiful spring day. Sadly, none of them had bothered to check the weather reports, and it came as a surprise when the clouds rolled in when they were barely a mile up the path. The rains were torrential, and the three of them had quickly become soaked right through. They'd laughed and continued walking, figuring they'd either reach the other side soon or that the rain would stop before then. After over an hour of walking and no end in sight, they finally relented and marched overland to reach the road. The streets were devoid of life in every direction, and they couldn’t tell exactly where they had come out; only that they were a long way from Dana and Randy's place.

Starting to catch a chill, they decided to find a phone booth and call for a cab, but had to walk a few blocks to find a garage that was still open. They managed to dig up the money for a cab and arrived in their apartment as the last of daylight faded away. Shortly afterward, they were all three stripped down and wrapped in warm blankets. Richard had agreed to stay the night, and a yearning ache had entered his chest at the thought that they might finally ask him to join them as they headed off to bed. Instead, he found himself alone in the living room, playing adventure games on their computer and trying not to think about what a strange man he was.

The next day, they brought him home, only to discover that his apartment had been broken into after the rains had stopped in the night. He discovered that he had donated two keyboards, a drum machine and about fifty CDs to some unnamed, under-funded neighbourhood music program. Fortunately, his rent money hadn't been touched. After speaking to the police on the phone, he ended up visiting with Randy and Dana again, and as per usual, there was no sex. Dana had actually called him out on that more than once, but in all the time that Dana and Randy had remained together, the invitation had never come.

Tropical Fish Friends

Richard hadn't been in a threesome in years, and hadn't come close to a polyamorous relationship since the end of his college years, and even that had ended badly. He'd flunked his college courses, failed to get admitted to anything for the next year, and instead gave up writing and ran off