Fiction—496 words
THE AWFUL, BIG BLANK PAGE
The heat groped me like a swamp monster the moment I stepped out of the plane, the twilight of my energies (I like that phrase make a note of it Mac) cringing at having to expend more. Brazil, here I come.
My hotel room looked out over Copacabana Beach (of course it did) at which I stared dully. The storied string bikinis, beach buns galore same as in Miami only made me sadder. Had I come all this way for nothing?
On to the Municipal Carnaval ball. The noise there attacked my eardrums and awoke spasms of pain even if the drums and trumpets on both sides of the enormous room arrived muffled through thousands of near-naked bodies gyrating around my table. I hated my readers, I loathed my editors, I wished my agent would sail his boat right up a reef.
After an hour battered by noise and body heat and flying sweat I left and stood drawing down the cooler air outside.
A hard bump nearly pitched me to the sidewalk and hands plunging in my pant pockets shocked a “HEY” out of me. Before I got my balance back the person was off running.
So what, now? Empty pockets, no money, no taxi fare (Not bad, but can’t use it, doesn’t fit). So I walked. At about dawn, having asked directions only twice and not understanding both times, I reached the hotel. I fetched my room key at the desk from a tired-looking clerk, opened my door and found a note on the floor.
“Senhor MacDonald, come to the Morro Santa Teresa to the top peak. We have your wallet and a deal.”
What do you know, in English and offers a deal.
I took some dollars out of the room safe, changed it at the desk and found a taxi.
The driver looked frightened when I told him where to go but the wad of local currency I showed him convinced him to keep driving. We went round and round the Morro, with the driver crossing himself at every turn, when a man stepped out from behind a tree and waved us down.
I told the driver to wait and went with the man, who led me to a shack. His boss was a small, skinny guy who reminded me of a smoked-down cigarette butt. The deal went this way: They were not thieves, just very poor and trying to bring electricity up here and the city refused to help.
He handed me my wallet. I checked inside. All my ID papers were intact and so was the money!
I did the gentlemanly thing, gave him half of it for his cause, shook hands, and drove back to the hotel.
On the plane headed home, I mulled over the Morro episode. Could I use it? Could I make it fit?
I faced the return to my gloomy workroom thinking of something dangerous. Didn’t every writer borrow from other writers, sooner or later? ###
