I Love Dialogue - Car Trouble

Kent Mason is an author of some modest fame. He was on his way home from a three state book signing tour when his new car broke down on the side of the road and he had to be rescued by Calliope Jacoby, who co-owns a towing company with her brother. They become involved and go out of town for a weekend, only to rush home because her home has been vandalized. At the police station, Kent has to use the restroom

I've long wondered why men's restrooms are set up the way they are. Women have privacy, but we're expected to yank it out and take a whiz no matter who's around. It's always made me nervous. There's always this sick impulse to check the other guy's junk, but you look like a perv if you do that. Not that I'm embarrassed about what I'm packing, far from it. I just don't particularly like to be stared at, especially with my fly down. Then there's the problem of where to look.

Do I look down at myself? That looks like I'm not sure I can take a piss without help. Do I stare at the wall? Then I look like I'm nervous or have something to hide. In a police station, I don't want to look furtive. I'm not gonna look at the piece of the guy next to me, so there aren't many choices left.

I chose to gaze at the flush valve. That's not so low that I seem perverted and not high enough to appear furtive. Glad I was done, I flushed, nodded politely and flashed a nervous smile as I went to the sink. I watched the other men casually in the mirror as I soaped my hands.

Seconds later, I was soaked from waist to hips. Cold water sprayed me from the faucet, spattering the mirror, counter and floor.

"What the fuck?" My vocabulary choice was probably unfortunate due to where I was, but I couldn't help it.

The two cops were laughing. I was soaked and standing in a puddle, and the two duffers were laughing at me.

"Sorry, pal, we should've warned you," the guy on my right zipped up and walked to the sink.

I noticed he avoided the sink I was standing next to—dripping.

"Then why didn't you?"

"Didn't think about it. We all know not to use that sink. The work order's been in for three months."

"Give me a wrench, I'll fix it myself."

"You a plumber?"

"I apprenticed awhile when I was a teenager. I could fix that in five minutes."

"Wish we could oblige, it has to go through the city."

"Got a towel? My girlfriend is talking to Sergeant um. . . ." I drew a blank. "Stacy," I bumbled to a finish.

"Lanier," Mr. Right finished for me.

"Thanks, yes."

"Oh, you part of that vandalism case?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend's property got hit."

One of the cops handed me a roll of paper towels. I started blotting the front of my jeans.

"I look like I had a serious bathroom accident," I fussed. "This is just great."

"We could find you some dry pants, maybe," the cop on my left suggested.

"Actually, my bag is in the car. We were out of town when we got the call. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to get my pants."

"I'll let Stacy know where you've gone," Mr. Left said.

"Thanks."

Feeling like an idiot, not for the first time, I wandered outside, glad that I didn't meet anyone on my way out. Gabe and Chas were leaning against the Jeep sharing a cigarette.

I grabbed my pants out of the back seat and joined them. They examined my wet crotch with a smirk.

"Someone get too excited?" Gabe asked.

"The sink in the men's restroom attacked me. Don't use the center one. Gimme a hit?"

Gabe handed me the cigarette. "Sorry we have to share, it's my last one."

"God, that tastes good!" I moaned with almost sexual delight as I took another puff. "I was hoping it would taste like ass, then I wouldn't feel so shitty about giving it up."

"It's a Sobranie, of course it's good. I don't smoke anything else."

"I'll pay for them, if you'll get more. I'm dying for a real smoke."

"Calliope will have your balls in a sling if you start smoking again."

"One. I just want one. Then I'll give it up, I swear."

"I bet you said the same thing about sex a long time ago." Chas smirked, nudging me.

"Hell with that. I had one hit and couldn't wait for another."

Both men laughed, shaking their heads.

"Find out anything useful?"

"Yes, don't use the middle sink. I need to go change. These pants feel nasty and my balls are getting chilly."

"Oh, God forbid he get frostbite on his extremities!" Gabe said loudly enough to attract the attention of a couple police officers who had just walked out the door.

I recognized my bathroom pals and waved self-consciously with my dry jeans. They laughed all the way to their cars.

"Thanks. That helped." I punched Gabe hard on the arm. "Now they think I'm a gay man who can't control his own plumbing."

"They don't," Gabe replied. "They just think you're a useless twit."

"Thanks that makes me feel so much better."

"Anytime."

Sometimes Gabe is annoying. I didn't want to go back into the police station with wet pants, so I clamored into the back of my rental and changed my jeans. He and Chas kept up a running commentary about my antics, laughing the entire time. At least I didn't have to change my underwear. I can only imagine what the comments would have been like then.

"Have you finally caged the rampant beast?" Gabe asked when I got out.

"Caged but still rampant." I grabbed a handful of my crotch for emphasis.

"Is he really that well blessed?" Chas looked curious, but not hungry.

"It's a thing of beauty," Gabe said with a serious frown. "Were I that blessed, I'd share it as often as possible."

"Could we not!" I raised my voice more than I should have. Several of the police officers coming out the door looked around at me.

Lowering my voice, I continued. "Could we not have this conversation right now, please? I don't particularly feel comfortable with it. Not exactly comfy with the fact you've seen me naked," I said quietly to Gabe.

"It's okay, honey. I've seen lots of naked men." He put on his best simper, winking at me.

I wanted to hit him, but maybe in front of the police station wasn't the best place for that impulse, so I didn't. Instead, I threw my pants in the back seat of my car and went back in the station.

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Car Trouble - part 2

I like dialog. One might go so far as to say I'm a conversation junkie. I like verbal exchanges, word play, innuendos, double entendre and yes, even puns. I particularly like conversations where the two main characters get to know one another.

I did a few "first meetings" not long ago, and I decided to revisit that and post a few more. This is the first part of a novel called "Car Trouble" - as yet unfinished.

The disconcerting thing about this novel is that I had car trouble myself in the exact spot that Kent has car trouble in the first chapter. Only that didn't inspire this tale, because that happened weeks after I started this story. In fact, I was driving home from a meeting planning to work on it when my tire blew.

My rescuer wasn't a hunky male, he looked more like Rodney Dangerfield, but he was friendly and efficient, getting me back on the road safe and sound.

I got out, dragging my meager possessions with me. There was more in the car, but I wasn't about to try to carry it all. Taking my other keys off the ring, I left my car key with Rosalie in the office and followed Cadence to her pickup.

"Mr. Mason, you look like a man in need of a cup of coffee," Cadence said as we hopped into her dark colored pickup.

"I do indeed, Miss Jacoby. I'm beat, but wide awake, if that makes any sense."

"I understand completely. I live on caffeine when I work this shift. I don't usually take it, just covering for one of the guys. He's out with the flu."

She pulled into an all night diner, parking out front. It was surprisingly full for nearly three o'clock in the morning. We found a booth, ordered coffee and pie and sat there awkwardly trying to find something to talk about.

I got a good look at my companion for the first time. She was an attractive brunette, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. Athletically built, she was muscular and looked stronger than some men I know. I'm no slack, but she could whoop my ass easy if I got too fresh. Her eyes were a dark hazel rimmed with long, black lashes. Dressed in jeans and a company T-shirt in day glow green, she looked very competent.

I felt even more as if I had spent the last twenty-four hours in the same suit. I was clammy and sticky, my T-shirt and underwear still damp from sitting in a too hot car while I waited for the tow truck.

"Pardon my saying, Mr. Mason, you look beat."

"Kent," I mumbled. "I am. It's been a long trip."

"Well, at least you had car trouble close to home."

"Yeah. It's been giving me serious trouble since Tallahassee. I kept having visions of getting stranded along I-10 in the middle of B.F.E. I hate that stretch of road."

"Having had car trouble along there, I sympathize. I was lucky it wasn't anything serious. I was able to fix it and got back on the road. It was creepy out in the dark though. I kept imagining someone sneaking up on me while I had my head in the engine."

"Oh, you fix cars as well? I thought you just drove the truck."

"My dad taught me how to tear down and rebuild an engine when I was ten. I've been working on cars since I was little."

"I know about this much," I held my fingers an inch apart. "Put the key in, turn it, internal combustion takes place and it moves. If one of those steps fails to happen...." I spread my hands helplessly.

She grinned, her dark eyes twinkling. "Then you call me."

"Exactly!"

"So, you're an author, huh? What kind of books to you write?"

"Crime novels, for the most part. Though I've tried my hand at other things as well. I've got a sci-fi series and even a few of romance novels."

"Romance? You aren't secretly gay, are you?"

"Why does everyone think that? Men can write romance novels too, you know. Of course, mine are more smut than romance...."

I laughed at my joke, I write mostly historical romance and they aren't very smutty. However, I can turn my hand at smut if it helps pay the bills.

"Oh, smut boy, huh?" She grinned, taking a sip of her coffee.

I sipped mine too, stinging my mouth. Gasping, I gulped my water to cool my blistered tongue. Eyes watering, I stirred my coffee and took a bite of my pie.

"I should have warned you," she looked concerned. "It's the hottest coffee I've ever had. I don't know how they do it."

"Pass it through a nuclear generator," I speculated. "Dear God, that's hot! Now that I've nearly killed myself, do you need to warn me about the pie?"

Cadence giggled, shaking her head. "I haven't hurt myself on the pie yet. Though apple... You never know with apple. They might have dropped a hand grenade in there."

"Yep, you'd never know the difference."

"Until you blew up."

"That would give it away, for sure."

"One might even say, 'a dead give away'," she smirked.

I know it's a cheesy joke, but I couldn't stop laughing. Blame it on a lack of sleep, or the fact I'd been traveling for nearly two weeks. Whatever it was, I felt like a complete idiot.
When I started to choke, I felt like a pathetic, lame, weak, complete idiot.

"Are you okay?" Her eyes held concern.

I could see myself in the window, turning red in the face, blue eyes watering, blond curly hair awry. All I could do was nod and gasp, so I did. No words came out, just gasping. Pretty soon everyone in the diner was looking at me. I could see a couple guys in the corner mentally reviewing the Heimlich Maneuver and wondered vaguely if it worked on liquid. I was pretty sure it didn't. Eventually, I stopped gasping and coughing, eyes watering like crazy. I looked like a victim of tear gas.

"Sorry," I wheezed. "Water went down wrong."

"You're a wreck, Kent."

Mentally, I was kicking myself. I liked this woman. She was bright and interesting with a similar sense of humor. Not only that, she was gorgeous. Except for book signings, I don't get out a lot and I haven't had a proper date since 1996.

Okay, I'm exaggerating. Not since 2006 when I got divorced. To be specific, I was figuratively ganked in the courtroom when my wife took virtually everything I owned. I now live in a modest rental home in Edgewater when I used to have a magnificent beach house in New Smyrna. My wife has the magnificent beach home, my Porsche and my dog, Ripper.

I realized with a lurch that my companion was speaking and I hadn't heard much of what she said.

"Kent, are you sure you're okay? You don't look so hot."

"Exhausted, Cadence. Nothing more."

"Maybe I better take you home."

I insisted on paying for our coffee and pie, leaving a more generous tip than it was worth, but I felt like I should atone for the choking fit in some way.

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