Continuing MacDougal Drive

Bill left the bar and lit a cigarette. Larry was a good sort, even picked up the tab. Bill resolved that he would buy beer the next time they were out, though he’d have to figure out a way to make some money first. Once he’d been full of ideas, some ridiculous sure, but there was never a short of inspiration. Then the dark times, the waiting around for his mother to die had taken something from him. He felt now that it was coming back though, that a spark had been relit somehow. A change had occurred, there was no denying it. Since the letter from the writer’s conference he’d been smoking too much, had started boozing again. The fragile illusion of control he had so carefully cultivated was becoming impossible to maintain. The nicotine shot through his brain and focused his thoughts, sent his drunkenness away to hide in a corner. He walked up the street towards home where he’d check on his mother, who would probably yell at him for leaving her alone. It had become clear that she was clinging onto life only to burden him, keep him down until he knew, and would never forget, what a rotten son he was to her.

The skies were an unnatural black above him. No, not unnatural he told himself, just cloudy, the threat of rain looming. He thought of how badly the city needed a good rain. Not for the drought, that was perpetual, but to give a feeling of being washed. That kid that had been killed made everything and everybody feel dirty and tainted, guilty over their own small roles in the evil. Murders were rare in this town, child murders almost unheard of. He’d given a lot of credit to that awful letter, but this sensational act of violence was just as much responsible for the change. A dark energy had fallen over the town, something sinister yet potentially beautiful.

He picked up his pace to beat the rain, felt the booze creeping its way back into his consciousness. Bill felt awful about the dead kid, the one that lived too, to live is sometimes worse. He was pretty sure that kid was a neighbor, but he had little memory for faces. But he had to admit a certain excitement too. Finally something worth talking about, something maybe even worth writing about again. He could follow the case, interview the victims and suspects, turn it into a narrative. He could be like Truman Capote, except he wouldn’t be gay. Well, he’d be willing to fake it if it meant selling the book. Bill didn’t have a lot of sexual urges one way or another anymore. But what a story, what a writer!

The drunk was back in full now and he had to piss. He stopped and whipped out in front of a brick wall, tried writing the first sentence of his new book with his stream. He became vaguely aware of someone shouting. He turned to see an officer of the law getting out of his car and coming at him.
“What’s going on here?”
Bill looked down at his exposed member. “Couldn’t wait.”
“Put it away.” The officer approached him and sniffed the air. “Drunk?”
“Boy howdy.”
“Alright, come on.” He led Bill into the backseat of his cruiser, but didn’t cuff him. “You’re gonna sleep this one off in the tank.”
Bill laughed in delight, he was back. Yes, he was losing control of himself. He could be a writer again. He watched the neighborhood fly by through the window and thought only of his new masterpiece.

Read the rest of the series of MacDougal Drive:

Bill

Jimmy

Dolores

Harley