||[Oct. 31st, 2008|06:39 am]
I was wondering what to do this year for the ol' Novel Writing Month, which has basically turned into this thing where instead of writing a novel, I make up some sort of weird nutty writing assignment and go to it until I get busy with something else.
And then drinky_lemur mentioned in a post yesterday that he was once given an assignment to write in the style of Hemingway. Ahhh, inspiration! Seriously, that is a crazy enough assignment to where I just have to try this.
And that's what I shall be doing this time around: writing chunklets of other people's novels, without resorting to the crutch of summoning their spirits and going in for that whole automatic writing thing.
OK! So here is some "Hemingway", well except this time the expatriate is a Southern Californian.
Across the McDonalds the white plastic tables and chairs extended out beyond the television tuned to FOX News. A line of people stood waiting at the counter. I looked for Jim and Smithfield in the line. They were standing there. Jim and Smithfield and Big Son-of-a-Bitch Larry. Jim and Smithfield were wearing their grocery store nametags. Big Son-of-a-Bitch Larry was wearing his eating shirt. Jim saw me coming and grimaced. His hand tightened on his wallet as I cut into line with them.
"You want a Bacon, Egg, and Cheese Biscuit," he said.
Jim was sullen. Big Son-of-a-Bitch Larry had a way of eating four biscuits in the time it took to eat two.
"Well the hell if I didn't pay for yours last time," I said.
"We should have waited until the weekend."
"After one of your Fridays there would hardly be any weekend left. Not to mention your paycheck."
"Are they good this time of day?" Smithfield asked. "Sometimes the biscuit is hard."
"That depends on if it is busy. They don't stay under the heat lamps as long that way."
"We'll be in this line a lot longer waiting for them," Jim said.
"But we will eat a fresher sandwich. That Minnesotan is back in the kitchen."
"Arnborg," Big Son-of-a-Bitch Larry said. "Very prompt, never leaves a biscuit in for too long. Ever see him at the gas station, Smithfield?"
"Gets decaf," Smithfield said, "but puts enough sugar and whiskey in it to drown and float away at the same time. Hell of a dancer though."
"Do you dance, Smithfield?" Jim asked.
"Only with someone else's wife."
We were next in line. Each of us ordered our biscuits, and Jim paid the cashier for them. The restaurant was warm and noisy and crowded with parents managing messy children. We were given a tray containing our food by an employee. I walked past the condiments and found us a place to sit.