(This is an artistic way to announce a new book. Hold on to your hats.)
SLIGHT EDIT…I’m so excited about this, that I’ve made two announcements. The first one is the original…it’s a dark, gritty, gloomy piece…noir, drugs, crime, guilt, all that jazz. I like it, but…scroll further down for a gentler one, too.
Version 1. The Heist
His hands were frantic, shaking as the high crashed, scrambling, searching through the shag rug in the basement of the crack house for one more rock.
Nothing. Nothing.
Except filth.
And shame.
He cast his desperate eye up to the TV on the wall. The preacher reached out a long arm of electrons, and pulled poor Jerome up, up, up, not to heaven, but to Earth.
He had a lot of living to do, a path towards the light. (And a band to lead. I’d play guitar for him years later as they all had a holy ghost party, and everyone knew “Josh’s folks” by sight. It was endearingly easy to spot us. I was a volunteer hired gun in an army of the Lord.)
I've had other friends who have seen the sunlight of a real life, but plunged back into a chemical hell, never to return.
Some have stolen, and repented, and walk upright now.
Even the guy working numbers at the car dealership told me he had a story. (Maybe those weren’t the only numbers he’s added up.) He redeems himself with each handshake.
Me?
I've been oh so clean, elite, polished, you’d-never-guess-it-was-me, on a crack team, a heist, stealing the most valuable thing in the universe.
(Time, my dear.)
I worked in a nursing home during the COVID lockdown, when families were barred and friends exiled and people died, often not of the virus, just of old age, alone, save for the rustling of the isolation gowns in the hall.
For better or worse, I was the System.
21 months, baby. Maybe I should do time as an accessory, reduced for being a nice guard.
(What are they gonna do? Lock me in solitary? Muzzle me? Experiment on me? Silence me?)
They should have when they could have.
The book is out now.
And it's too late.
You can order a copy here.
Or, if you're a paid subscriber, send me your address, and I'll send you a copy.
Or, if you'd just really like to read one, let me know.
The Truth.
A witnessing of days illegal for others to see.
It must be told.
And that's what I'm doing.
It's called Cities on a Hill.
Version 2. The Sparrow
Gosh, I loved these people. They grew me up, and we were brothers in arms, pandemic pals. “The Sparrow” told me I should write a book about them, so I did. Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 1:
“Josh, I had a dream.”
“Oh?”
“I had a dream that we wrote a book together about our time here....And you made a million dollars!”
“Hey, I like that!”
She continued. “Yes, and the publisher called me to arrange a second printing.”
“Nice! Can I tell the room?”
“No, no, it’ll be our little secret for now. Don’t forget about us, Josh, okay?”
Her voice cut through the blur of stress. Her glasses became mirrors, reflecting my face, and the choice between up and down that waited around every corner in the building.
“I won’t. And, if I ever write a book, I’ll dedicate it to you.”
I squeezed the Sparrow’s hand, rose, and went back to the land of polyester.
She went to bingo.
The sunbeams shone on Callahan Avenue many times since then, slowly bleaching the carpet and gnawing the patio chairs, the teeth of Time.
I moved away, and swapped polyester for flannel. Spring came stealing over the mountain, and blazed into another summer.
If I listen closely, beyond the Blue Jay in the pecan tree and crickets in the pasture, there’s something else.
Somewhere between the rocking chair and my conscience —there it is again. A question intones in a quavery voice as I sit at my keyboard. Maybe it’s her ghost. Or maybe it’s just what’s right.
“Josh, will you tell them?”
“Yes I will, Martha.”
This one’s for you.
(Check it out here, or subscribe for a month to snag a signed copy. Already a paid subscriber? Drop me a note with your address, and I’ll send you a book.)