Here's a version of my novel from 2006. I was testing out different beginnings.
Michael
There was a dispute over who the apartment complex belonged to, who had the higher claim. The truth was, it was owned and maintained by two old geezers who hadn’t set foot on the property in twenty years. They rented the place out to their grandchildren---the oldest, Michael, got the top apartment, his cousin Jaclyn got the bottom and her younger brother Julian shared the middle floor with his best friend from high school.
The building sat back from the Portland Bay; on inviting days Michael could look out his window and watch a variety of different people coming and going, doing a variety of different things---walking the boulevard, sailing boats, selling lemonade, having picnics, or just driving by. During the winter, kids would trudge across the sidewalks with sleds, slide down the sloping hills toward the water, never quite reaching it, only making it to the edge of the bushes which descended into a jungle-like tangle of trees and branches that led down toward the abandoned train tracks; just beyond that was the bay. The location was an experience in and of itself. And then there were his neighbors.
Michael was twenty-six, liked to think himself mature, liked to think he’d moved beyond the childishness of adolescence. He’d graduated from college four years ago with an English major and the desire to be a published writer before he hit thirty. He wanted to make a difference in the world, he wanted people to read what he had to say and be better for it. The only thing he really needed was peace and quiet in the evenings so that he could spend that time at his computer.
His cousins had a different idea of what life was all about. They were the spawn of his permissive aunt and uncle, they’d been raised among wild children like themselves in a city where everything you could possibly want was right there in front of you---you just had to grab for it. Seize and attack. They grew up thinking that the only way to end a week was to throw a huge party, get drunk, nail down everything that moved. Julian would join his sister on the first floor, and he’d bring his roommate Nick, along with half the city or more. They’d turn up the music so that Michael couldn’t hear the shouting, grunting and crashing so much, but Busta Rhymes or whomever the hell they listened to still blared through the thin boards of his floor, interrupting his train of thought, making him momentarily think the characters in his book were sex-crazed gangsters in the ghetto. It would seep into his writing and would result in pages of wasted time. If he happened to be writing long-hand, it would be wasted trees.
So the weekends when they sought their entertainment elsewhere----out in the forests of Portland----should have been a blessing.
When they were gone, and the building was empty, and there was nothing but the sound of clicking computer keys, if that, Michael would realize that it wasn’t noise that was the problem. It did distract him, and got him writing pages in the wrong direction, but at least writing the wrong stuff was still writing something. When his writer’s block snuck up on him in the quiet of his home, he would push himself away from the computer screen, and say to himself that it was time for a break. Many times he found himself hunting down his cousins, looking for some action and a little inspiration. After all, he couldn’t very well expect to write stuff that spoke to people if he didn’t get out and at least try to live a little. He’d pay a visit to various dives he recalled them mentioning to his face or within earshot. But his luck was bad. They almost always managed to allude him--not being at the places where he searched for them, or if they were there, they blended in well with the surroundings.
And then one night he found them in the dark tavern of Lucifer’s Oven, a pizza parlor in town. They were hiding out in the attached game room. Julian and Nick looked up from their air hockey match, surprised to see him there, but more than willing to take on a challenge. He could play a good game too.
Julian and Nick were eyeing each other across the air hockey table with the looks of two killers. Jaclyn sat at a table off to the side, focusing on her soda and what was left of a large pizza. This room was far less crowded than the main dining area and most of the noise came from a television suspended from the ceiling, set back in a distant corner. It was tuned to a sports channel. The restaurant had an orange and black motif---orange and black walls, orange and black booths. The owners apparently took offense with the traditional red and green décor that was the trademark of Italian eateries. They were Pagans, Michael had heard, and rumor had it they slaughtered animals out back and served them up on a pizza twenty minutes later.
“You’re up next,” Julian called to Michael. He sneered at his opponent. “Winner takes him on.”
Watching Julian and Nick right then reminded him of being younger and watching the way Julian and Jaclyn would play together as children, and the way they’d fight, and tell jokes he didn’t understand, leave him out, dooming him to a life of always observing, wondering what it would have been like if he’d had brothers and sisters himself.
Michael joined Jaclyn at her booth. Together they watched the two boys battling it out several feet away. Jaclyn had never been real friendly to him, but she didn’t turn Michael away and she was certainly a lot nicer to him at that moment than he had any right to expect. She should have been hostile and defensive. Lately he hadn’t treated her very well at all. But maybe it was just a good cover. She presented him with a calm air. She smiled at him. Behind his back, she’d probably sink her teeth in deep, tear him limb from limb for the benefit of the others. He reminded himself that her mood could change. He felt a tension between them like a wild animal ready to attack.
“Hey Jack,” her brother shouted across the room.
She turned to look at him.
“Come over here,” he said.
“I’m talking to someone,” she told him, her voice abrupt and hard like the sound of balls and hockey pucks knocking against each other. She realized they hadn’t been talking, that she had essentially lied to the kid, so she asked Michael about his novel. “How’s it going?”
“Horrible.” Michael rested his elbow on the table, lowered his face in his hand. “Just horrible. I don’t want to talk about it.”
She didn’t say anything more, just watched him from across the table. She began to knock at the formica with her knuckles. He looked down at her hands, noticed the glinting bracelet she wore around her left wrist. Tiger Tiger, it read.
“Nice,” he said, reaching over to touch it.
She met his eyes. “Thanks.”
He let go and turned away.
“This guy gave it to me,” she went on, “long time ago. His name was Jude.”
Julian started to shout, gloating over his alleged victory. “Mike,” he called out. “Get over here.”
Nick was sullen, a defeated look on his face and in his voice. “Come on, Jules, let’s go. You’ve proven yourself enough for one night.”
“Hell no.” At any moment, Julian could lunge forward, attack.
“You go on home,” Michael said to Nick. “They can get a ride with me.”
Nick just looked at him for a moment. He shrugged. “Fine.” He clapped Julian on the back. Jaclyn stood up as Nick headed out. “Bye Angel face,” he called out to her. “Take care of your brother for
me.”
“I always do,” she said. She watched him go, then snuck up on Julian, seized hold of his arms, pulling him to her. “Congratulations.” She kissed his cheek. He gave Michael an uncomfortable half-smile, as if to say, Can you believe this? “Thanks,” he said. She whispered something that made him laugh. He met Michael’s eyes. “Get out of the way, Jack,” he said to her, “you’re breathing on me.”
She let go of him. “Sorry. I’m going. I’ll be outside if you need me.”
“I didn’t say you had to leave.”
“No, it’s all right. I was going to have a smoke anyway.” She reached into the pocket of her brown leather coat and pulled out a pack of menthols. “Have fun, boys.”
Julian gripped the edge of the air hockey table where he stood across from Michael. He leaned forward, his head down. Jaclyn touched his shoulder one last time but he didn’t acknowledge her. She left them alone, with a handful of customers milling about the room.
”Little angry at your sister for missing your big victory?” Michael spoke up the minute she was gone.
“What?” Julian looked up. “No, I don’t care about that.” They started to hit back and forth, a steady motion. “It’s not me she was avoiding, it was him.” He scored a goal, smiled up at Michael.
“Him? You mean Nick?”
“Yeah. They don’t get along.”
The kid had convinced himself but he hadn’t convinced Michael, who wanted to point out to Julian that it wasn‘t Nick she was avoiding now. And it wasn’t because she disliked her brother. Julian was being a real pain. “Nick seemed to get along with her fine.”
“Subtext, friend,” the boy said, though they were not friends, never would be friends if things kept up the way they were going and if Julian’s ironic tone had any say in the matter. Julian was also irritated. He wanted to stick with air hockey. Michael had no interest in the game in front of them, only in the twenty questions his little cousin was trying so hard to dodge.
“I don’t get it, why’d she come here with you guys in the first place?”
Julian stopped what he was doing. Michael already had. “A little curious tonight, aren’t we? I asked her to come, all right? Besides, she likes to keep her eye on us. Just to make sure Nick doesn’t corrupt me, I guess. Now let’s play the game.”
Jaclyn was waiting outside for them, her back to the front of the brick restaurant, puffing on smoke or cold air, Michael wasn’t sure. Her head tilted to the left; she leaned over and glanced into the window beside her, watched the people in the dining room for a moment, then turned to face forward. “Hey. You guys ready to go?”
“Yeah,” Julian said. “Unless you want to go back inside and take me on yourself. I kicked his ass. I kicked both their asses. I’ll kick yours.”
She pushed herself away from the building, dropped her cigarette to the sidewalk and crushed it with the heel of her black boot. “You know, I’m getting sick of your little attitude, Jules.”
They walked to Michael’s car, the silence between the brother and sister having reached its height.
None of them spoke until Michael was seated in the driver’s seat and the other two had climbed in back.
Michael glanced up and caught their eyes in the rearview mirror.
Julian turned his attention to his seat belt. His sister nudged him with her elbow. He forced a smile.
“All set?” Michael asked. He looked away, his eyes darting to the floor.
He pulled away from the curb and they started down the dark bending road, the silvery waterfront glistening off to their right, two voices drifting from the back; it wasn’t long before he tuned them out all together and focused on the path home.
Jaclyn’s words broke his concentration several minutes later as he approached the Promenade. “You know, Mike, you don’t have to go right back up to your own apartment. Why don’t you have a drink with us before you go on to bed.”
She was making fun of him. It was only nine o’clock. He usually stayed up till midnight writing, or not writing. He could do either quite well, it seemed. Sometimes he watched the eleven o’clock news, but he never went to bed before twelve. She was watching him as he caught her eye in the mirror, just a quick look on his part but enough to understand what she was thinking. “Sure,” he said.
He parked in the empty driveway of the complex; the locks clicked as he shut off the engine. Jaclyn and Julian had already cleared the back seat, both sliding out the same door, the brother pushing at his sister as he followed behind. Now they stood in place, waiting, staring at each other, their hands shoved into their pockets. Michael almost slammed into them as he emerged from the vehicle. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.” He walked on ahead, they remained a few steps back. He heard Julian ask his sister if she had any beer left over in the refrigerator from the last party. She told him that he and his pig friend had swilled down the last of it, he’d have to settle for soda. He told her he was sick of soda, that he knew she had the real stuff hiding in back behind the heads of lettuce and expired milk, that she just was treating him like a child; he reminded her that he was nineteen, only two years away from twenty-one anyway. She said she’d check for him, just to be sure, but she really didn’t think she had anything.
Then she agreed to let him look for himself, when they got inside.
Michael unlocked the front door and waited for them to catch up.
Jaclyn‘s apartment was classy, despite what happened there once or twice a week. It looked like a small house. When she opened the door at the top of the first indoor staircase, he stepped right into the living room. There was a plasma screen TV in the front corner of the large room, to the left of a fireplace and at an angle. There was also a white leather couch and a glass coffee table that managed, from day to day, to remain in one piece, much to his amazement. He was always shocked by the cleanliness of the place whenever he visited, except on those occasions when he showed up in the middle of a party to complain about the noise. On those nights, everything was in disarray, which made the contrast between those evenings and this one so much more striking.
Jaclyn walked on ahead, through the living room, through the doorway to the right of the fireplace, and into the kitchen. A long porcelain counter protruded from the wall next to the kitchen entrance halfway to the other side of the room, with two stools in front of it. He could see one side of her body over the counter top as she opened the refrigerator. The most distant room, just beyond the kitchen, was hers.
Her bedroom light was off, the door partway shut.
“What do you know?” Jaclyn brought over a can of Budweiser and set it on the counter in front of her brother.
Michael reached to place a hand on Julian’s. “Don‘t go crazy.”
Julian cracked open his beer, made a face. “So long as you don’t tell anyone about this, I‘m not worried.”
Michael shrugged.
Julian hesitated. When his sister left to get something in the living room, he leaned close to his cousin, whispered, “If by some strange occurrence I actually happen to get drunk and pass out on the floor…you’ll make sure I get up to my apartment. Right?”
Michael turned, looked him over. “Why?”
“No big deal,” Julian insisted. “I just don’t want to wake up with a hangover and Jack nagging me about it.”
Michael tapped the counter with his knuckles. “Yeah. Sure kid. Whatever.”
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