This morning I put vodka in my orange juice. Because it helps me do the things I need to do. And what's the point of living to one hundred if you don't do anything?

I poured the drink, and I sat down, and I started the book. Not far, mind you. But I've got the main character. His name is Mike. He lives in a cabin in the woodsy mountains outside a small college town. He owns a gun. So far I'm falling back on cliché. The gun. The isolated cabin in the woods. Vomit. But you've got to start somewhere. I might scratch it all, of course. But for now I'm pulling from what's around me. When imagination is low, take from what's real.

And it is...real: The gun. The cabin. Mike.

Is that wrong? Writing about a real person? It's not like I really know him. I'm just observing. Watching. And filling in the blanks. I knew him originally from the university. Where we both work. He's English Faculty. Foreign Languages shares the same building. So I see him often there. And we exchange cordial greetings. He always says, "Bonjour" to me. With that American southern accent, which makes it sound kind of ridiculous. He usually has a cigar with him. Just chews on them since you can't smoke on campus now.

And that's it. That's all I've known until now: Southern accent, cigar. Everything else I've known is basically the same anybody else at the school knew and was the product mostly of rumor. Like: he slept with that student last year.

Until now, of course. Now I know a bit more. Because now he's my neighbor, if that's what you call it out here in the country. He lives way over there, in that cabin. He came over and chatted a bit when I was moving in. He called me "neighbor." He smelled like a campfire.

When he spoke, he cupped his hand under his chin. Pulled at his beard. He smiled a lot. Nice smile. But he seemed like he was worried about something.

So now, since I moved out here next to him, there are a few more things I know. There's this, for instance: he sometimes takes his gun outside and shoots at cans. The sound is frightening to me. I asked him about it when I saw him on campus the other day—why he shoots. He says he hunts turkeys in the fall. Says the cans are for practice. I think I'll use that.

At night, he sits for hours in that room right over there. I can see him through this window. He sits there, with his dog. He sits looking at his computer, not typing for hours. He sits and talks to himself. Or to the dog. Maybe that's the same thing. Most of the time, he keeps the blinds open. But sometimes he closes them.

Sometimes his ex-wife comes by. I can't think of her name right now. She works at the college, too. She's in admissions. She brings their daughter, who will stay with him for a few days at a time. There is another man who comes with his ex-wife when she drops the daughter off, but he never gets out of the car. When they return to pick the daughter up, Mike will sit on his porch and smoke a cigar for about an hour after they leave. Then he goes and sits in front of the computer with the dog.

One time the woman came alone. She and Mike stood in the doorway talking and not looking at one another for a while. They started arguing about something. I could hear their voices through the trees, but couldn't hear what they were saying. Then she hit him. And he grabbed her by the wrists and shook her. My skin got all tight and goose-pimpled. I wondered if I should call somebody. Then he let go, and they went inside. That was at 4:30 pm. At 11:00 pm, she left.

Here's what I've decided about Mike: he's going to kill somebody. Not in real life, of course. But in my novel. He's going to murder...somebody. I just don't know who yet. His ex, perhaps? Her new husband? Or maybe somebody I haven't discovered yet.

Look, I know this is a little weird. The watching. The spying. The making up of things. It's just, well, it helps. To watch people. I used to live in the city. It was easier there. But now I live on this mountain, alone. Well, with Mike. Which my friends say isn't safe for a woman to do. But I like it. Everybody's so obsessed with safety. People carry hand-wipes and use anti-bacterial soap. They make excuses as to why they can't go on a trip. Or why they can't have chocolate cake for dinner. Or why they can't pour vodka in their OJ for breakfast.

Jesus Christ. What's the point of living a life to one hundred if it's not the life that makes you happy?


Chapter 1:

Mike Case was a good man, mostly. He usually told the truth. And he often was faithful to women. Whenever he committed one of the seven deadly sins, he felt bad about it almost every time. He said his prayers whenever he was scared about his own mortality. The minister at the church in town even knew him by name. And he'd call him by it every Christmas and Easter....

Category: Fallout