Paint Shaker

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

I was sitting at a table. It was small, wooden, round. The chairs were plain and matched the dull, cheap look of the table. I was wearing the same clothes I'd had on just moments before. The table was illuminated by a light source that seemed to come from nowhere, above our heads in some impossible place. It's light carried no farther than a few feet from where we all sat. Beyond that lay an inky void.

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

There were four men at the table with me. Three to my left, one to my right. The three men to the left were nearly identical. Aging, thinning hair, narrow faces. All wearing ill fitting black suits with white shirts. Their neck waddle hung loosely in their collars.The only way to tell them apart was that they sat in descending order of height from right to left, each a half a foot shorter than the last.

To my right was Paint Shaker. He was shirtless and hairless. His skin was a mottled gray. Over his eyes and mouth, heavy iron plates had been riveted. I called him Paint Shaker because every few seconds, his head would shake inhumanely fast, vibrating until it became a blur.

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

The tallest of the three men had dealt a hand of poker and I realized that I was in. All four of my opponents looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to pick up my cards. Paint Shaker's head shook violently.

I reached down and picked up what I'd been dealt. But when I saw what was on the flip side of the red Bicycle backs, I knew I was doomed. They were all coupons. Just coupons. Not even able to beat a simple pair. I considered throwing my hand to the table.

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

There was a ringing. A second ring. It was a telephone. A man approached in a suit. He had a fish head and was dripping wet. His suit was soaked. He held the telephone in hands that were human, but covered in scales. He reeked like a pier. The telephone was an old corded rotary number. A faded pea green, its cord trailing off into the dark infinity.

Fish Head ignored the ever growing noise from my opponents who seemed annoyed at my delay. Fish Head brought the telephone to me, its receiver still in the cradle, it's body still ringing loudly. I picked it up and put it to my ear.

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

“Hey. Are you okay?” It was Harry. I glanced around and looked to Paint Shaker. Was I okay? Harry repeated his question. “You alright?”

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

I opened my eyes. “Yeah, I'm okay.” I was in the passenger seat. Harry was driving. Matt was in back. We were heading out to the theater. Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible.

The above story is true. Sort of. I'd written a version of this quite awhile back and it got lost so I thought I'd give it a go again in honor of my being a bit loopy from my current bout of insomnia.

The reason I say that it's sort of true is that it's my memory, in exact detail, of what happened to me over the course of a few seconds of being unconscious. I sometimes have a vasovagal response to drugs or needles ( the reaction forces blood toward the center of the body, away from the brain, sometimes causing the person to pass out). I don't consistently have the response and have learned to control it a bit as I've gotten older. In this case, I was trying a particular recreational drug for the first time. Based on my response, I never did the drug again. However, I'm the only person I know who has ever reported vivid memories during unconscious periods. This is not my only memory of this sort, but it was certainly the most extraordinary.

I'm an Author, SHHH, It's A Secret

I wrote a book. I'm a published author. But I can't share the title with you or even the subject. Here's why.

So, about 11 months ago, I was laid off. More accurately, I was unkindly and unceremoniously dumped on my ass by my former employers, may they spend eternity in a very warm heaven.

About 8 months ago, in the midst of still looking for work, I started a blog. It was a lark, not a joke, but meant more as an experiment. It was never meant to go anywhere or become anything. I was mostly writing it as a way to keep up my writing skills, have a creative outlet, and pass the time with something that wouldn't cost me money.

For the sake of explaining why I can't tell you the title or the subject matter of my book, I'm going to create a fictitious example of what my blog was all about. Let's pretend that I pretended to be a Los Angeles police officer who's name was John Smith. John Smith decides he's going to write a blog about being a cop in L.A. and all that goes along with it - the politics, the racial tensions, the brutality. But, John Smith realizes that if he puts all of this out there on the web with his name attached he'd be fired at the very least. His whole life could be turned upside down.

Instead, John Smith decides to change names and dates around so that no one can guess who he is in real life. He uses the fake name of Frank Jones. He changes around just enough information that he knows that no one will be able to trace it back to him. John Smith writes this blog because it makes him feel better to be able to vent about some of the tough things he has to deal with.

But something unexpected happens. His blog becomes popular. Not LOLcats popular, but he has regular followers, who question him, prod him, support him, chide him and encourage him. Soon, the blog has taken on its own life.

John Smith started out his blog talking about things in his past. Eventually though the events in the blog have 'caught up' to present day. John Smith decides that writing about present day events are too hard to disguise and instead sort of wraps up the blog.

Someone suggests to John Smith that his harrowing stories should be assembled into a book. That's when I, Connor, in real life, decided to compile all of these blog posts into a book.

Without intending it, I had created a complete arc for my John Smith character, starting with how and why he became a police officer, what happened to him and where he is today. As a book, it's more than 400 pages.

But...The book had to be published with John Smith's 'nom de plume', Frank Jones. Since the book is written as the events were real, to use my own name would be to undermine the very authenticity the writing strove for. Knowing the true author's name would endanger 'John Smith' and out me, Connor, as fraudulent, since I'm not a cop.

So, there you have it. It's published, I can call myself an author now and I'm very proud of the book. But I can't tell you the title, the subject matter or my nom de plume.

On the plus side, back in November, I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I got a great start on a book that I'd been wanting to write since 2004. I've gotten more than 70000 words in and I'm about 3/4 of the way through the book.

This book, a speculative fiction/fantasy book will have my name on it and I'll let you know as soon as it's available. So, Connor Alexander doesn't have a book out yet, but he's an author.