Lots of blogging today. Laid out in bed does that, I guess. I wish I could get to my desktop - that's where I keep most of my files and the Adobe Suite - I think it's time to rethink my computer set-up. At any rate, I figured I'd share some of the novel I'm working on. It doesn't have a title yet. It's a coming-of-age story that takes place in Brooklyn during the late 1980s. I'm only around 15k words in but I expect to get a lot of it down this week. At any rate, the first part of chapter one...et me know what you think so far...

Peter dives behind a wood-paneled station wagon, tearing a hole in his jeans – blood takes shape around the newly-formed scrape and for a moment all he can think about is the mass amount of rubbing alcohol his mother was going to pour on it. A Brooklyn Cut, as his mother calls it, has so much grime and splintered glass that adequate treatment involves marinating in alcohol and the application of an iodine rub before wrapping it in gauze and bandages. According to her, this treatment is only necessary for scrapes acquired in Brooklyn (hence the name), as if Brooklyn streets are filthier than any other surface in the entire world. Oddly this is more a badge of honor than a reason for disgust as, according to Peter’s mother and mostly everyone else living in Carroll Gardens, everything is better in Brooklyn, including the filth.

As he reaches up to check for the potential bump on his head, however, and his hand comes down with a clump of hair, he realizes the treatment his mother is going to apply to his knee is the least of his problems.

None of the adults in Carroll Gardens truly comprehend how bad Halloween is these days, evident by the fact that the adults still send kids to school on Halloween. It’s the kids fault, really. The kids try to tell their parents what it’s like and end up repeating the most vicious of rumors and urban legends. The parents hear tales of MacGyver-esque combinations of eggs, razor blades, battery acid, bleach and other corrosive elements and think that the kids are just trying to get out of school. Parents can’t comprehend that the Rizzuto boys, who can’t even get a grasp on fifth-grade science, know how to extract the yolk from an egg and turn the shell into a home-grown delivery system for some low-grade chemical warfare agent. And if the Rizzuto boys can’t figure it out, there’s no way that the kids coming over from the Red Hook Projects know how to do it, either. So they smile as their children are begging to stay home, on the verge of tears, and tell them, “One day you’ll be the one throwing eggs on Halloween. It’s how we do things in Brooklyn.”

Peter was sure his mother was not going to believe that he was hit with a Nair egg and this unfortunate incident was going to lead to a long, horrible night and a punishment, most likely. The last time Peter lost a chunk of his hair was when he tried to shave his non-existent beard with his father’s razor. He denied everything, prompting his mother to drive him to the hospital, convinced that her child has developed a rare form of acute-cancer. Once at the hospital, Peter’s fear of needles greatly outweighed the fear of his mother and he reluctantly confessed that he didn’t have a terminal illness. The words were harsh and the slap on the ass stung, but the punishment was severe – two whole months. No TV. No radio. No comics. He couldn’t even read books unless it was part of a school assignment. This time it was going to be even worse. Telling his mother he was hit with a Nair egg is the same this as telling his mother that she was wrong. And you can never tell Peter’s mother that she was wrong.

Then everything goes black for Peter as a body falls on top of him, putting a knee in his groin and a hand in his face. “Fuck. Sorry,” Tony says as he pushes off of Peter, ready to lunge for the next car. Tony pauses to smile at Peter’s bald patch and quickly realizes that this may not be funny. Yet. “Holy shit! They got Nair eggs?”

“At least. Where’s Ron?”

“Fuck if I know.” Tony makes a motion to dive for the green minivan but pauses once again to punch Peter on the shoulder. “Beaver,” he says, pointing at the wood-trimmed station wagon that’s providing them protection from the onslaught of eggs and, one can assume by the broken window two blocks back, shaving cream covered rocks. With that Tony is off to the next car, avoiding the eggs that seem to be tracking his movements down President Street. Peter looks back up towards Henry Street to see if there’re any sign of Ron. He is either getting beat-up pretty bad right now or he managed to find an escape route on one of the cross streets. The latter seems impossible, however, since these mini-Pattons funnel kids down President Street.

They post sentries on the corners to block off access to Union since that’s where the police station is, the only building of refuge on Halloween (the church is smart enough to keep its doors locked). A second group of egg throwers shimmy down the other side of the street, keeping kids pegged behind cards so that the sweepers can come around and pick them off as they huddle on the ground, too scared to move. At any rate, there’s nothing Peter can do to help Ron at this point and it’s only a matter of time before the sweepers converge on him to do their job – he’s been in one place for too long.

Peter makes a break for the next car, amidst screams of He’s moving, get him!, and, stop running, faggot! Eggs whiz by his head, one hits his backpack and another gets him on the shoulder. None in his hair and none in his eyes – that’s all he can hope for at this point. He sees Tony several cars ahead of him now. Tony apparently decided to ditch strategy and he’s simply running as fast as he can. All of the egg throwers are swarming towards him – it’s like blood in the water. Peter takes advantage of the situation and runs back the way he came from, staying low, and makes a break for Henry Street, in the direction of Carroll – where a few roamers will hang out but nothing compared to the concentrated forces you see on President. Two people come after him once they realize he’s getting away but their screams aren’t heard by the ravenous hordes cornering Tony, the main target at the moment, and the two pursuers decide to give up the chase and make their way to the easier target.

Peter’s escape from the firing squad doesn’t signal the end of his ten-block journey home, however. He now finds that he has to choose between crossing the BQE via the Summit Street Bridge, the one area where there’s no cover whatsoever and a team of two egg throwers could overwhelm a lone kid, or go all the way down to Hamilton Avenue and cross 42s - Junior High territory. As he nears the bridge, Peter takes comfort in the fact that it seems abandoned. He could see his house on Woodhull Street in the distance – three blocks (plus the bridge) to go and it all looks clear. Sacred Heart’s church stands tall on the corner, its great cross, the tallest point in all of Carroll Gardens, seemingly forcing Jesus Christ to be the bridge’s guardian on this Halloween.

Peter puts his head down and runs towards the bridge’s steps.

Labels: jasonrodriguez, novel