The waiting room
08 Mar 2017 | Danny RocketDanny sat in a waiting room.
Ah, buckets, I forgot where I was.
He glanced upwards and muttered under his breath, “Wow, worst sentence written by any author ever.”
Hey, you’re the character here, I’m the writer. This is a rough draft you know. I’ll catch it on the second pass.
“Also, buckets? really?”
Look, I need to follow some guidelines for cleanliness to get certain groups to recommend this book. It’s better to keep it clean or make up exclamations.
“But buckets. What doen’t you like about buckets? You should use something you hate–like stepping on legos.”
Lawsuit waiting to happen. How about gum?
“No, if you use that as an exclamation, I’m going to start laughing. I might start laughing anyway. Some authors use things related to their universe. Who’s the badguy here?”
There isn’t a particular bad guy, it’s more general. I haven’t figured that part out yet. I’ll figure it out later.
“Ok, well, whatever you decide, I’m supposed to be in a park asking Candy questions about a wooden sword and she just said something crazy that definitely needs some follow up. So, snap your fingers or turn a page or something and let’s go finish that scene.”
“Mr, um Rocket?” A large man with a goatee stared at Danny from behind the counter. “Your car is ready.” He held up some keys. Danny walked up to the counter, looking around for the first time since arriving. The guy, Nicky, according to the nametag, looked like he did bench presses with the cars he worked on.
There were three other people in the room, a mom and two young kids. The mom sat on the plastic waiting chair staring blankly toward the burning coffee pot on the far wall while her two young children destroyed the magazines on the end table nearby.
“That’ll be $30.57. And you should get the gear oil changed on the back left.” Danny paid, took his keys and walked outside to his grey 1995 Nissan Sentra.
“Aren’t you going to put me back at the park, since I wasn’t supposed to be here anyway?” He asked no one in particular.
He glowered then glared up at the sky, “Don’t give me that. You know who I’m talking to.”
No, now that I know where I am, I don’t want to lose track of my train of thought, and stop talking to me, you’re probably why I lost track of the story in the first place.
Danny drove through downtown and made his way to the park. From the parking lot he could see the bench by the bridge from earlier. He ran to the picnic table where the box lay open, sword still inside. Bundling the sword, cloth, and box together, he walked down to the river.
“Candy!” He still had questions. “Candy, where are you?” He stood on the shore yelling sweet nothing at the river as it drifted by. He looked very much like a crazy person, which is why a concerned citizen called the police and Danny spent an evening at the station convincing officer Perry that he had full control of his mind and that the sword was only ornamental.