Iced Coffee

Trace considered Amy over the rim of his wine glass.

“If you told the guy that sleeping with you wouldn’t advance his career, then you must’ve got the vibe that he wanted to sleep with you.”

“He’s in my class, Trace. He’s a student of mine.”

“Yeah, and he’s got that young and handsomely Spanish thing that turns you on. Why did you two meet for coffee in the first place?”

“He said he had specific questions about a story of his that I read, that he didn’t understand all my comments.”

“And?” Trace lit a cigarette and studied her face through a swirl of blue smoke.

“And he didn’t have specific questions, just sort of general writer-type questions: How do you organize your time? How did you get an agent? And he asked, ‘Who did you meet at the conference in New York? Anybody worthwhile?’ That was the vibe — plus he paid for my iced coffee.”

“But you told him that sleeping with you –”

“I didn’t exactly say sleeping with me wouldn’t help him. I said sleeping with ‘another writer’ wouldn’t help any of us. We need to sleep with editors and reviewers.”

Amy laughed. Trace didn’t.

She took a delicate sip of her wine and continued. “So he asked if I slept with any editors and reviewers and I replied ‘Are any of my books best sellers?’ That was as much sexual banter as we engaged in. Honestly. I don’t know what he wanted except to kiss me goodbye at the end, but it was too hot outside and I avoided even the hug.”

“Is he a good writer?”

“He’s a serious writer, spends a lot of time at it, reading and everything. But in terms of natural talent he’s just not there.”

“Uh-huh. Reminds me of the old joke about the Polish starlet who thought she could get ahead by sleeping with the writer.”

“He’s Spanish, not Polish.”

“I think we’re clear on that.”

Trace Guest Fiction: "A Trace Tale For A Friend" by Ron McKinney (aka Old Mack)

Trace keyed the numbers into his calculator for the third time. He shook his right hand after punching the Enter key. The pain made his eyes water. He could hardly see the numbers in the LCD window. “It’s six of one, half a dozen of the other!” Trace mumbled as he swept the calculator from his coffee table with the back of his hand.

Shirley, supine and nearly naked on his sofa, swung her legs around, put her feet on the floor and said: “I know what you need, handsome.”

Trace frowned at her. “I’m not in the mood.”

She got up and walked around the chair where Trace sat, placed her fingertips gently on his temples and lightly massaged them. “I wasn’t talking about sex, love. I just thought of a way to solve your financial crisis, I think.”

Trace raised his arms and moved Shirley’s hands down to his shoulders. After a few minutes her massage reduced the pain in his elbows, wrists and fingers to a level he could cope with.

“So, what’s this big idea?” Trace asked, trying to keep his cynicism out of his voice.

“You remember Ed, the guy I was typing scripts for last month?”

“Vaguely. Isn’t he the one who was trying to get in your pants?”

“Yes. But let’s not beat that dead horse today, dear. I was thinking that if I asked him nicely he might advance me a thousand bucks. . . now, don’t get on your high horse, there wouldn’t have to be any quid pro quo, if that’s what’s worrying you …”

“No dice! I’d feel like a fucking pimp. I’ll work something out. I always have.”

“I already called him. . .while you were hobbling to the store for cigarettes yesterday. He said it would be no problem. So I let him transfer the funds to my checking account. I checked my balance on line: I’ve got sixteen hundred and change.”

Shirley walked to Trace’s miniature refrigerator and took out two frosty bottles of Cervesa Pacifico. Before uncapping the bottles Shirley rubbed the backs of Trace’s swollen knuckles with them. Trace winced, but didn’t move.

“Damn! That feels good. But you know I’m not supposed to drink with the meds I’m taking.”

“Okay, so don’t drink it. Just hold the bottle in your hands and see if that doesn’t ease the pain. I’m going to drink one whether you do or not.”

“Hey, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Shirl. Don’t be pissed. Okay?”

Shirley straddled the arm of Trace’s chair, letting one leg cross his. “Why won’t you let me help you? Didn’t you help me out when I was broke and had no place to live or a pot to piss in?”

Trace shifted the bottle to his left hand and stroked Shirley’s thigh with his cold finger tips. She quickly removed her leg and stood up.

“If you’re going to be so pig headed, I’m going home.” Shirley rasped. She started collecting her panties, bra and skirt from where she’d hastily discarded them the night before.

“Where’s my fucking blouse, you bastard?” Shirley hollered from the bathroom.

“It’s on the goddamned bed. Move the fucking sheets.”

Trace sat staring at the label on his sweating bottle of beer. A lifesaver surrounded a photo of Deer Islands off the coast of Mazatlán. It sparked an idea.

“Before you leave in a huff, come here and let me make a proposition. Not a proposal, damn it.”

Shirley, fully clothed, sat on the sofa primly, impatiently waiting for Trace to speak.

“Say I let you loan me the dough to settle my debt at Payday-Now so I can pick up the fucking check they’re holding as collateral … now don’t get pissed again, I’m trying to figure a way to do the right thing, and still keep my balls intact.”

“Spit it out. I’m listening.”

“Suppose we go to Payday-Now and use your debit card to pick up my note and check. Now here’s my idea. Next Sunday, the 30th, we take a trip together down to Tijuana.” Trace held up his beer bottle and showed her the label.

“You’ve been telling me since we met that I should go see a fucking bull fight, right? Well, next Sunday there’s supposed to be a great matador, Eulalio Lopez known as “El Zotoluco” fighting at the Plaza el Toro. I just read an ad about it in the Times. I was thinking that we could both write an article about it … something like Hemingway might write. I’ve been told they don’t actually kill the bulls down there, but the spectacle is just as grand. What do you say, are you up for something like that?”

“You know me, Trace. A handsome Mexican in tight pants always turns me on. I’d go, if we could maybe go out to Rosarita beach for a moonlight swim after. The water’s warm, and you know how I enjoy making love in the water. . .”

“Then it’s a deal. I’ll get dressed and we’ll go take care of that fucking bill.” Trace said as he pried the cap off his beer bottle and drank deeply.

Shirley stood up. “I’ll run down to my apartment and take a quick shower and change.” Smiling, one hand on the door knob, Shirley raised her bottle of Pacifico in a toast. “Great idea, Trace. I’ll be ready to go in half an hour.”

(Read more of Ron McKinney at Old Mack’s Tales)

More Trace Fan Fiction: "Trace Listens to the Voice of Reason" by Lela Michael (Hurricane Shirley)

“I miss Lisa.”

Shirley sprawled lazily in Rodger’s extended stay suite at the Glendale Day’s Inn. A willowy bare leg snaked over the top of the sofa; the other plopped randomly onto the cushion, forming a peachy V.

Rodger’s eyes moved up and down her reclined frame, coming to rest on a delicate mole above her navel. A raspy grunt emitted between drags on his Marlboro told Shirley the grumpy man was listening as he resumed pacing the room.

“Let’s see.” Shirley tapped four fingers against her thumb in succession. “I’ve been Lisa, Felicity, Nancy … and now I’m Shirley. Lisa was my favorite. Can I have another beer, handsome?”

Rodger kneeled grudgingly in front of the small fridge next to his computer, wincing at the arthritic stab in his right knee.

“But I learned not to take the Trace stories personally,” Shirley went on in a sing-song voice Rodger secretly admired. Affection for her personality traits rarely escaped his lips.

The beleagured writer stared into the fridge full of beer, wondering briefly how many cans would disappear before his black depression lifted.

“See, I figured out that characters in the Trace stories are part of your story, not mine,” Shirley chirped ineffably. “When it comes right down to it, Rodger, you don’t even know me.”

He stared even harder at the Budweisers stacked in the fridge. He could calculate in one glance the number of cans lining the three shelves, yet grew impatient with her inane chatter. What the hell is this broad’s point!? Dan Knight’s voice snarled at Trace somewhere inside Rodger’s head.

“So I don’t take your stories literally - no pun intended.” Shirley smiled warmly and sat up, perching herself carefully as she framed her next sentence. “One day Trace will deduce that he has never loved himself unconditionally. When that occurs, his writer’s block will crumble like week-old bread.” She paused, but only for a moment. “The only way to continue your stories, Rodger, is to change how you feel about yourself.”

A loud thumping silenced all voices.

“Fuck!” Without looking at Shirley, Rodger stormed to the door. He peered furiously through the peephole as Art the Meth Head pounded again.

“Get the fuck away from me, you simple bastard!” Rodger took a few steps back. One side of his mouth curled into a gentle sneer. “Oh, shit,” he said calmly. He wheeled around to announce to Shirley that art is simple - but the sofa was empty.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered again, this time wistfully. “Shirley left Glendale last week, didn’t she?”

Rodger sat down heavily at his desk in the corner, staring out at the Verdugo Hills. When the sobs finally subsided, his fingers returned to their rightful place on the keyboard. He began to type:

Trace looked in the mirror and wondered about the healing power of love.

(Visit Lela, aka Hurricane Shirley, at Excellent Fodder)

Trace Fan Fiction: "Trace and the Hungry Worm" by Sally Barry

“I’m sorry, Sir, I can’t fill this prescription.”

“What? Why not? Is my insurance cancelled or something?”

Trace leaned heavily on the counter. It was hot out, too hot, and he’d been stuck on a bus with two screaming kids and their screaming mother for a half an hour. He could feel the tank draining as his meds wore off, and the small, restless worm gnawing at the base of his brainstem.

“Your insurance is fine,” replied the pharmacist. “I am refusing to fill it because it conflicts with my religious beliefs.”

“What the fuck?”

“I am a scientologist. Sir. I do not believe in mental illness or psychotherapy, nor do I believe in the need for medications of this sort. I am required by law to refer you to a pharmacy that will accommodate you, but I’d rather refer you to our downtown headquarters, where you could fill out our short questionnaire and get on your way to some real help!”

Trace closed his eyes and began counting slowly to ten. He made it to three. The worm stretched and hissed.

“Just give me back my scrip and my card, you cocksucker.”

Trace stalked back out into the heat. “Fuck it,” he muttered, heading for the sputtering neon martini glass three blocks down the street. The place was usually empty this time of day, dark and cool and quiet.

The barmaid grinned as he walked in. She had straw-colored hair and freckles in her sunburned cleavage.

“Hey, Darlin’! I was beginning to think I’d never see you again… want your usual?”

“Please. Make it a double, though. I just had an absolutely surreal experience with a fucking scientologist.”

“Heh, heh heh…” She poured him an extra-stiff one. “Sorry to hear that. God, they’re worst than EST-holes!”

Trace looked down at his drink and sniffed it. The hairs on his arms stood up. The tavern door opened; he winced a little as the sunlight hit him.

“Oh, shit…” The barmaid whispered. “It’s Nick the Prick!”

Trace put his head down on the bar. The worm curled fatly around a nerve and squeezed.

“Trace! What the hell you doin’ here, I thought you was off the sauce! Looks like not, so lemme buy you one!” Nick sat down and slapped Trace on the back, hard.

“No thanks. I haven’t started on this one yet. And if you touch me again, I’m going to punch you right in the nuts.”

“Yeah, sure! Dammit, I missed you. Say, didja hear the one about the Polish starlet?

“No, Nick. What about her?”

“She screwed the WRITER! HA! Hahahahaha!! Oh, God, can ya beat that!”

Trace lifted his glass and drank, slowly. He closed his eyes and began counting.

The worm shuddered, shrieked, and finally lay silent.

Return to New Colombia

“So, I read the new Trace story.”

“And?”

“It was interesting. Experimental and surreal, very creative.”

“Do you think it works as a stand-alone piece? I mean, a village burns down and Trace kills people and nothing is explained.”

“Trace allegedly kills people. You never came right out and said he killed anyone.”

“True. But there is a whole back story to that Trace story. I wrote what I did in one fast, manic blast and then sat on the story for three days, trying to figure out how to write the rest of it. Finally, I just said ‘Fuck it’ and published it as is. I like it.”

“What’s the back story?”

“Well — ” Rodger lit a cigarette and took a sip of his beer. “Trace goes on a dare issued by Amy, sort of a scavenger hunt.”

“Amy being your married writer friend.”

“Trace’s married writer friend. You know that full well. Why did you feel the need to interject that?”

“Just to keep your readers up to speed.”

“Oh. Okay. So, she’s out of town for two weeks doing a rewrite on a movie.”

“Amy is out of town.”

“Correct. And before she leaves she issues Trace a challenge: find a poetess and fall in love or, at least, fall in lust. So Trace starts haunting all these funky book shops and poetry readings in Silver Lake and Echo Park and he’s really quite nauseated by all the pretense going on and all.”

“Trace among pretentious poets,” Shirley said with a hearty laugh. “That’s a good one.”

“Before I go too far, I should mention that the original title was ‘A Million Dollar Sunset’; that’s important to know as it factors into the ending with the burning village and all.”

Shirley curled one slender leg under her hip on the sofa in Rodger’s hotel room.

“Anyway, he finds this poetess at a reading in Silver Lake. To cut to the chase, they fall in love but she has some shadowy shit going on, namely a husband in Mexico who is a small time drug dealer and local thug in this small village called New Colombia.”

“Does New Colombia actually exist?”

“No, totally fiction. She ends up going back to New Colombia and Trace follows her and a confrontation ensues between Trace and the husband. The poetess has fallen in love with Trace and wants to return to L.A. with him but the husband, Jorge, will hear nothing of it. Jorge offers Trace one million dollars to return his wife to him and Trace says, ‘I can’t make your wife love you again for a million dollars. You can’t have her back.’ And then a gunfight ensues and that’s where the story that I wrote picks up, after the gunfight.”

“So the poetess is killed?”

“Murdered by the husband. In this little wedding chapel he built for them in the middle of the town. Trace finds her notebook of original poetry on the chapel altar and that’s when he freaks out, grabs a gun and — awwww, you see how complicated it got? There’s no wonder I didn’t feel like writing the whole damn thing.”

“Any other reasons?”

“Yeah, I wrote it during a manic episode. I didn’t think I was supposed to get those while on psych meds.”

Trace Fan Fiction: "Nothing Is Free" by Khakjaan Wessington

“‘The roses the fat Mexican sells are the ephemeral beauty she lacks’… aww fuck it.”

“What did you say?” Trace mumbled through the unsmoked cig from his lip.

“Never mind… how old do you think the guitar player is?”

“Not quite forty. I’d say thirty seven.”

“‘A woman of a certain age?’”

“Not even.”

“She’s frigid.”

“What, you know her?”

“Look at the way she plays. She’s too serious.”

“She’s just concentrating.”

“At ‘thirty seven?’ You’d think she knows how to play.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s too late for her. She should’ve gotten serious as a teenager instead of dating and goofing off until she almost lost her looks.”

“Jesus Ian.”

“Well she’s ok, but she’s not that good. Look around. It’s a sausage party in here. She’s here for the attention. She’s not going to shit in her kitchen. She goes somewhere else to get a date… hey; you think she’s dating the bass player?”

“…”

“Oh come on man, you can do better than her.”

“Maybe.” The bartender eyed Trace, but knew Trace wasn’t about to light up. Ian had a point; Trace guessed it was an eight to one ratio of men to women in there, which is exactly why he hoped Ian would just shut up. Let a man enjoy his eye candy in peace.

“Hey Trace, you see that Armenian guy on my right?” Ian had insisted Trace sit on his left because he was deaf in the other ear. Trace remembered seeing a hearing aid the last time they met and figured it was 50/50 whether Ian lost it or pawned it.

“The guy who just stepped out for a smoke?” The bartender put a napkin atop his glass of cognac.

“Yeah- Moustache. Remember how the prick didn’t want to make room for me?”

“You’re the one who dragged the backpack in like some college kid.” Ian was thirty but looked a decade younger. Only the errant strands of grey shooting out of his Korean afro hinted at his true age. Trace took him to Jax’s Bar and Grill in downtown Glendale, a favorite spot for Trace, despite Ian’s stained white t-shirt announcing that he was a proud slob.

“What, I’m going to just leave my notebook in the car?”

“Just get a suit and briefcase like every other adult.” The bartender bent over to retrieve some clean glasses.

“You know, I was going to share this with you, but fuck it.” Ian grabbed the unattended snifter and gulped down its contents as Trace stared at him in disbelief. Ian hoisted his backpack, hopped off his barstool and walked to the door. “Come on Trace, I’ll buy you the next drink.”

Out front, Ian smiled at the Armenian and said “Now you’ve got all the space you need. Wide open range as far as the eye can see.” Trace followed six steps behind as Ian danced down the street. Behind them, Moustache exhaled and stubbed the cig out on his left loafer.

“The guy told me to move when you got up to piss. Wow, look at all these banks here! I didn’t realize how many had bases here. Hmm, schmancy bistros- this must be honky-town.”

“Ian, fun fact: all these shops are here for the one hour the bankers all go downstairs to eat their lunch. Twenty-three hours a day this place is Armenian.”

“Oh crap, sorry for shitting in your kitchen man.”

“It’s ok. He looked harmless.”

“I know. I’m a poet, man- I notice everything. His moustache glistened like platinum cards in the sun.”

“Oh yeah? Did you notice his cold sore too?”