THE CASTLE HOUSE

A crackling sound like that of a campfire suddenly broke the silence in the still room. A rude intrusion on concentration, as Paul angrily crumpled another page of freshly printed dialog into a ball. Having been read, and found guilty of crimes against prose. Following the pages before it, and receiving the same judgment, the same verdict, and a kangaroo court sentence, now to be carried out; a long toss across the office, going for  yet another three pointer, an air ball of prose directly into the wire wastebasket he had placed last month on top of Miss. Moneypenny’s desk.

 

 “Alright, What do you think about that Miss Moneypenny?" He said addressing the mannequin set up as his secretary and sitting behind a prop desk near the door, at the entrance to his office. "At least I’m getting better at something. Wouldn't you agree?” Paul fell back in desk chair, leaned all the way back and stared up at the ceiling. “I must have more copy in that basket than I do in print!" He said thinking out loud.

 

Paul Hollander's recent fifty-fifth birthday was more of an alarm than celebration. Although he had managed a fair living as a writer, never did he experience the success he had anticipated. Now, nine years after he and his wife, Irene, divorced, a divorce that hit him hard, which is probably the reason he is still single today he struggles to keep positive, he constantly thinks out loud trying to convince himself that it was his decision to divorce, rather than Irene's, focusing on the benefits of single life, such as, having the time and freedom to write without restrictions.

 

Far too old to quit which he considered so many times. However, he knew he could not abandon his craft, his first love. Writing was the food for his mind. It was what kept him breathing. His tunnel vision work cost him his marriage. Those countless hours spent working was one of reasons his former wife presented in court as grounds for divorce. “I don't know what happen, he could not or would not make time for our marriage. I can’t live like that anymore”, Irene testified as she wept during the proceedings. Paul could only sit and listen as he quietly wept inside. He loved Irene but he knew he could not change and if he was to ruin a life then let it be his alone.

 

The absence of satisfying success plus his age placed him in despair. He agonized over what he must be doing wrong! It was like perpetual writers block.

 

All those years struggling in the city, busting his a*s, receiving unfair offers, and now, losing his marriage, left him to conclude he had to make some sort of drastic change in his life. Clearly, what he was doing in Boston was not working for him. The old adage, "the definition of stupidity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results" Therefore he determined a change of environment would spark some form of new inspiration he needed in order to turn the page of his career. He decided to move out of Boston and head for the country, somewhere out in the Berkshires maybe. Betting all his chips on a change of environment, out where writers like, Nathaniel Hawthorne, W. E.B. Du Bois, Herman Melville, William Cullen Bryant and Edith Wharton found inspiration. He hoped to tap into whatever it was that they found out there. It was a gamble but it may ignite that spark and the inspiration he needed.

 

The realtor he had recruited and employed to find this oasis was Mrs. Janet Hendricks of Lavish Homes and Properties. Since she first began the job, she kept in contact every couple of weeks or so or whenever she found a new prospect. Letting Paul know she was on the job.

 

Paul worked at home in his apartment; “Miss. Moneypenny, I’m gonna fire you if you don’t start helping out around here!” Paul said addressing the mannequin his friends snuck into his office four years ago as a prank, setting her up behind a desk near the entrance to Paul’s office. Paul always joked how he needed a secretary but could not afford one. His friends provided one in the form of a mannequin. Paul named her Miss. Moneypenny after Ian Fleming’s James Bond secretary in the movies. Paul would toss his hat on to Miss Moneypenny’s head using her accentually as a hat and coat rack, claming, “Miss. Moneypenny has to do something around here! “ Miss. Moneypenny left arm was, outstretched as though she were gesturing toward the door. Paul used the arm as a coat hanger. She had become an official part of Paul’s office décor. 

 

One sunny late morning at his desk, scribbled in his notepad but getting nowhere, something shot across his line of site, it was the shadow of a passing bird from outside the window and it drew his attention to the huge window. He spun around and looked up from his large swivel chair. He saw a perfectly beautiful sunny afternoon wasting away before his eyes. Like hypnosis, it drew him out of his chair and to the window. He first looked up at the blue sky; slowly he scanned lower to the top of the buildings and down to the tops of the few trees and finely to the ground. He began watching the people buzzing about in their busy lives. He picked out one and focused, trying to figure out what might be going on in that head at that moment.

 

A loud knock on the apartment door snapped him out of his hypnotic trance. Dropping his note pad on his desk as he passed and Miss. Moneypenny, he went to the front door.  He opened the door, “Jack”! How the hell are you?” Jack Webster and Paul grew up together in the same neighborhood and were close childhood friends. Paul swung the door open with a welcome look on his face. “That’s what I came here to ask you, you old buzzard, you haven’t called, you haven’t been to the club. I thought you might have croaked on me or something?” Jack said as he entered. “You couldn’t have come at a better time Jack; I was just about to hang myself!” Paul said laughingly as he closed the door. "Come on in" Paul said, as he led Jack to the room he called his office. “Hey, you’re funny” Jack said with a scornful smile.

 

“No, no such luck, I’ve just been so dam busy trying to find a house” Paul replied. “Yeah, I heard about that, any luck?” Paul shook his head as he walked around his desk to his chair, “No, No, nothing yet” Paul said as he sat down, sounding like he didn’t want to talk about it. “You sure you’re doing the right thing, moving way out there?” Jack said as he took a seat across form Paul, his eyebrows morphing into a concerned V shape. “No doubt about it, Jack, I need to do this!” Paul said with confidence. “You’re going to be away form all the action way out there, and alone!” Paul laughed, “What action, the last time I sold a good money maker I had hair, besides, I have Miss. Moneypenny!” Jack laughed, “You auto to write more humor."

 

“Hey, how’s Elizabeth?” Paul asked trying to change the subject. “Great, in fact she was asking about you, in fact she made me promise to check in on you.”

“Ah, she’s a sweet heart.” Paul paused as he remembered the last time they all got together. “So”… Jack implied and waited for a reaction. Paul read his implication, “So what?” Paul returned, snapping out of his momentary drift into the past. “So - how are you doing?” Jack said now leaning forward in his chair, his forearms on his thighs. “I’m good, you know writers Jack. I’m a keyboard Hermit when I’m writing.”  “Hum…” Jack looked over at Miss. Moneypenny while Paul was pretending to be looking for something on his desk.

 

“Listen Paul, why don’t you forget this house stuff for awhile?” Jack said with true concern. Paul stopped what he was doing and looked at Jack. “You know, the thought had occurred to me, temporarily at least, it’s beginning to burn me out!” Paul said. “Paul listen, why don’t you take a break and join me, get out of here for awhile? I’m on my way to the Sticky Wicket for some lunch, I’ll buy the drinks.” The Sticky Wicket is the Pub, restaurant where Paul and Jack often go to relax. They knew many of the regulars and the place serves great foods and drinks. It is also within walking distance from Paul’s apartment. Paul knew Jack was right. “Yeah…yeah, I think I will, let me put some of this stuff away”. Paul began taking things from his desk and stuffing them in draws. He grabbed a freshly edited manuscript and put it in his lower desks compartment, and locked it. Getting up he went to rich for his notebook. “No!" Jack demanded, "Put that down." Paul paused a moment, looked at Jack with a smirk and dropped the notebook back down on the desk. “You’re reminding me of Irene,” Paul said. As they were going for the door, the phone rang. “Leave it!” Jack commanded. Paul thought for a second, “nah I can’t it might be about the house” he walked over and picked it up while Jack stood impatiently and gave an almost unnoticeable slight shake of his head at the stubborn nature of his friend.

 

“Hello… ah, Mrs. Hendricks, I’ve been meaning to call you, listen, Mrs. Hendricks I appreciate all you have done and those two places you showed me were very nice but its been three months now and I think it’s time I rethink this …” Paul suddenly stopped speaking. A moment later, “You did… yes that’s right… the more secluded the better… god no, that’s fine I need some piece and quite, when can you show me? … This Sunday would work great for me.” Paul said as he looked at his empty appointment book and began scribbling. “Excellent, what time was that? Nope, one o’clock would work great… your office… right, I will see you then… I will, thank you Mrs. Hendricks, you too, bye now.”

 

Paul returned the phone to its receiver and looked at Jack with a conquering grin. “She found an old Victorian out in the boondocks." "Great" Jack responded. "All right; now I’m really going to enjoy those drinks you promised, I haven’t been to the club for a while. If I get drunk I got you to blame for it!” Jack laughed like hell. “I think your realtor's the one to blame, but hey, I’ll be glad to take the fall, besides I have to look out for the elderly, right!” Jack said as the door closed behind them muffling their voices.

Author's Note

This is a raw meat first draft and up to this point I have only forty four pages. I think some input may help me depending which way the gate swings.

Reviews

[Derek29]

This is a pretty good first draft, on par with some of the better writing these days. Sort of new decade style writing, smart and sort of funny, lofty, yet sad and poignant. Outstanding. We encourage you further.

[Paul McCall]

Derek, thank you for your positive review and encouragement, I value every upbeat response I receive. Thank you, I needed that, Chapter two coming soon.
Paul