My life as an Adventure Writer
It’s not all glamour. Some of it is humiliating. An adventure writer needs inspiration and that comes in the form of my Nancy. It’s like living with Cato, and I’m not Inspector Clouseau.
It all started when I met Nancy. Except for an epiphany for falling down and making out in cars, she was quite normal. Until she moved in…
I was returning with provisions for…okay it was groceries. And as I came up the stairs, she jumps out from the door and unloads two pistols on me. I am stunned but not bloodied as they contained mere tap water. She threw one squirt gun down and dived back behind the door.
I abandoned the groceries and picked up the gun and spun the cylinder. Still has several ounces left. I sucked in a breath and charged through the door. Squirt fire raked my cheek and a little stunned, I dived for the floor. Stupid move. Now my buttocks are getting sodden. I army-crawl for the recliner.
That is when she broke the squirt gun rules of warfare. Everyone knows you’re supposed to exchange shots from behind cover like Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke. But no, she charges at me, pistol ablaze. I stumble backwards, prickly from the breach of squirt gun law. Wrestling ensues and giggles take over. Afterwards I rush to the typewriter and start tapping away.
The next morning, Wisconsin snow blankets the alfresco. Nancy is in the shower performing shower yawns. I snake outside and make a really big snowball. Soundlessly I carry it through the living room, and cautiously down the hall.
I pause beside the bathroom door listening to my adversary. I need to be sure Cato is really in the shower and not ready to pummel me with cough syrup or worse. As I slide through the doorway my heart pounds so hard my feet pulse on the floor. One step, one action, one quick breath to suppress my glee. She’s in there, relaxing in the warm shower.
My best Indiana Jones shouts “GO”! I pull the shower curtain back and slam that fat snow ball into her, pull the curtain shut and run. Two steps and a jump and I’m doing my victory dance at the bathroom door.
That was a mistaken festivity. In horror I watch as the shower curtain screeches open and the snowball is in her fist and she’s coming out of the shower at warp speed. My guts collapse and I turn and run, my laughter replaced by little girl screams.
I bolt for the front door confident in the fact that she won’t follow me outside. I race and hear the thump thump of footsteps and know her weapon is frosty and loaded for delivery. The door comes into view and I hope to God I am out of range as I pull on the door.
I hear her feet slipping on the hardwood. I twist the knob and dive outside, gripping the handle and pulling it shut. Just before my shield closes, that fat snowball flies across the living room and somehow slips through the collapsing opening of the door, and the bomb explodes right in my face. Good shot Cato.
Later that night, I am typing my adventure on the pages of my fiction hero’s exploits. I wait till Nancy is warm and cozy in bed reading her book. Opening the patio door, I stick my hand in the snow until it really stings. It’s time for the cold hand of doom.