Better Late Than Dead; Episode 2

  This is episode two of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday.

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

Episode 2

It was 4:55. Rich was the only one remaining in the newsroom. Briggs was still in his office. Rich tugged his story from the typewriter. He placed it in the out-basket on his desk just as the copygirl gathered outgoing copy from the other desks. He watched the copygirl enter Briggs’ office and place the copy she collected on his desk. He watched Briggs flirt, but could not make out the words. The copygirl left the office with a smile.

I get it, Rich mused to himself. She’s my replacement. He needs an excuse to fire me, or better yet, make my life so miserable I’ll quit.

Rich stood. He grabbed his sports jacket from the back of his chair. He slung it over his shoulder and hung it on his finger. He felt a little smug. He figured it all out. He walked down an aisle between the newsroom desks. It led to Briggs’ office. Briggs glanced up. Rich stopped at the door and leaned in.

“Good night, Mr. Briggs. Mr. Briggs, I’m sorry we’re not really getting along. Before taking this job, I had offers at two other newspapers. I took this one to be close to my parents. The man who recommended me thought he was doing this paper a favor. He thought it would upgrade the writing in the newsroom.”

Briggs scoffed. “You arrogant swab of puss.”

“You ever wonder why you haven’t been offered a job elsewhere?” Rich said. “How many times have you tried to move up and been turned down?”

“I like where I’m at,” Briggs said.

“And so do I,” Rich said.

“You’re not a team player,” Briggs said. “You think you’re better than the rest of your team. You don’t strike up friendships, ask for help, have an after-hours drink with workmates, or ever ask for help. You're a snob. You think you’re too good.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Briggs.”

“I’m not,” Briggs said. “I’m dead on.”

“If you think I’m going out of my way to prove you wrong, you’re dead wrong. The thing is, I know you better than you know me. I’m guessing you were the butt of jokes in school. Never had a serious conversation with a girl. Could never get one to look at you. It only got worse in college. You moved across the country and reinvented yourself. You model yourself after somebody who has everything you lack. You probably had a squeaky nasal voice and worked hard to develop your rich baritone voice. You put a lot into yourself, but who you really are shines through. The only reason you have this job is that it was given to you as payment to leave the owner’s daughter alone.”

Briggs rose in his seat. It was as if somebody kicked him in the stomach.

“Don’t worry. A good reporter protects his sources. Before I took this job, I was told all about it. And frankly, Mr. Briggs, it means nothing to me. I don’t care. If you fire me now, no one would ever hear it from me.”

Briggs swallowed hard. Panic was carved on his face.

“Good night, sir,” Rich said and walked away.

He walked down the steps leading to the exit. He heard footsteps behind him. At the bottom of the steps, a man’s voice called, “Larsen. Rich Larsen.”

Rich stepped outside onto the sidewalk. He turned around. A man about Rich’s age smiled. “Do you remember me?”

“Have we met?” Rich said.

“You work on the sports desk, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I was a year ahead of you in school. Stan Ward.”

“Yeah,” Rich said, “I remember you. We had a study hall together.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Stan said. “Whatever happened to you? I heard you ran away.”

Rich flashed a crooked smile. “I did.”

“Well, where did you go?” Stan asked. “What happened to you?”

“Short version or long version?” Rich said.

“Short version now and the long version over a beer and pizza,” Stan said. “I’m buying.”

Rich followed Stan to a pizza place. It was Monday, and the place was dead. They sat at a booth and ordered immediately.

“Where’d you get that ole Jeep?” Stan asked.

“I bought it a few years back,” Rich said.

“That’s the short version, right?” Stan said.

Rich smiled. “It’s the only version.”

“I heard the conversation you had with Briggs,” Stan said.

“I intended it to be private.”

“The newsroom is like the Mormon Tabernacle,” Stan said. “When the room is empty, you can hear a mouse fart from inside a desk drawer.”

“I felt it was overdue,” Rich said.

“He’s a smarmy lowlife,” Stan said. “Sounds personal.”

“A year before you came here, this girl from the university and I started the same week. We were friends at school. I cared for her. Briggs had her in his office all the time. Business lunches. Working late. One day, she’s gone. A few months later, she had a baby. So from what I heard of your conversation, you have him pegged.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Okay,” Stan said. “I guess. She found a job at another paper. I called her a couple of times, and she told me not to call anymore. She was sweet enough to say it wasn’t me, but just a reminder of the mistake she made. The good thing about it is that Briggs wants nothing to do with her or the kid.”

The waitress brought two mugs and a pitcher of beer. Stan poured the beer.

“What’s the long version?” Stan asked.

“It took seven years to live and seventy years to tell.” They began sipping the beer. “After I left home, I went to Maine. I worked for a newspaper. Started as a janitor. Ended up a reporter. I did that for three years. I learned to sail and sailed for four years. I came back here. I met an old schoolmate and started drinking beer.”

“That’s all you’re going to tell me for now, isn’t it?” Stan said.

“For now.”

“That’s okay with me,” Stan said. “I’d only end up being jealous of all the things you’ve done. Me, I'm stuck here.”

“What’s keeping you here?” Rich asked. “Are you married? Have a girl? Family obligation?”

“No, no, and no,” Stan said. They sipped. “I’m comfortable,” Stan said. “I don’t mind telling you because you don’t talk to anyone anyway.”

Rich shrugged one shoulder.

“I went to college right after high school,” Stan said. “Didn’t want to get drafted. Majored in English and Journalism. Dean’s list, cum laude, great future. You know I could have gotten a job at the Toledo Blade. I took the low-hanging fruit. The university gave me a great education and a great start in my career, but they didn’t give me courage and ambition.”

Rich clicked his cheek. “Those things are highly overrated.”

“It had to take courage to do what you did,” Stan said. “Leave home at fifteen.”

“You do a pretty good interview,” Rich said.

“I’m just talking, here, Rich. I need beer, pizza, and somebody to talk to.”

Rich nodded to indicate he understood. “Desperation.”

“What?” Stan said.

“It wasn’t courage, it was desperation.”

“Home?” Stan asked.

“Home,” Rich replied. “I’ve spent the last two years trying to make up for it.”

“What about your mom and dad?” Stan asked.

“They’re trying.”

“Did you really work for a guy who won a Pulitzer?” Stan asked incredulously. “Sam White,” Stan said. “The newspaper guy who was instrumental in breaking up that Commie plot to take over a couple of northeastern states?”

“I was out of the country when all that happened,” Rich said. “I’ve never bothered to catch up on it.”

“But that’s the guy you worked for?” Stan said.

“A small newspaper in Rockland, Maine,” Rich said. “He gave me the boat I sailed. He hired kids out of Harvard. He’d unteach them and send ‘em out into the world. When it came to me, there was nothing to unteach. I could barely write a sentence. In a month, I was writing for the newspaper. Then an actual reporter. Mind you, he went through a case of red pencils just on me.”

“Have you read any of my stuff?” Stan asked.

The waitress interrupted the answer by bringing the pizza. They began eating and complimenting the taste.

“Nothing better than hometown pizza?” Stan said. “What about you?”

Rich chuckled. “I was thinking the same thing. Believe it or not, this is the first pizza I’ve had since coming back home.”

“You haven’t had pizza in two years!” Stan said.

“It’s been about five or six,” Rich said with his mouth full.

“That’s incredible,” Stan said.

“Stan,” Rich said, “you’re a pretty good writer.”

“We’re talking pizza, here,” Stan said.

“You asked before the pizza came if I read your stuff,” Rich said.

“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment,” Stan said. “But I will take it. I was just asking if you read my stuff. I read yours and thought it was pretty crappy. It’s nice knowing that Briggs is the one putting all the hyperbole and shine on it. What you give him probably bears little resemblance to what is published. He ought to take your byline. What do you suppose he’s trying to prove?”

“His type live in a bubble,” Rich said. “He thinks everybody else is wrong. Eventually, the world will come around to him.”

“The owner is paying quite a price to keep Briggs away from his daughter,” Stan said.

Rich sipped his beer and stared at Stan over the top of his mug.

“What?” Stan said.

“Nothing,” Rich said.

“I know that look,” Stan said. “You didn’t invent it. I’ve used it plenty of times.”

“What did you use it for?” Rich said.

“Okay,” Stan said, “what am I missing?”

Rich tilted his head.

“Briggs has something else?” Stan asked.

Rich shrugged.

“What is it?” Stan leaned across the table.

Rich smiled. “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell a guy on the sports desk. Seriously, I don’t know. But figure it out. Do some digging.”

“Wait a minute,” Stan said, “is this anything like the thing with Sam White back in Maine. Are you a plant? The owner of this paper has been accused of being a commie. Everybody knows he has socialist ideas, but…”

“Don’t go out on that limb,” Rich said. “I like you and don’t want to see you full Tail Gunner Joe on me.”

“Remember,” Stan said, “I don’t possess the courage to go out on a limb.”

“You covered the city golf tournament last week,” Rich said. “You made golf interesting.”

“Thanks,” Stan said.

“Nouns and verbs so strong you don’t need adjectives,” Rich said.

“I’d have used vigorous instead of strong,” Stan said.

“Why sports?” Rich asked.

“I played or tried to play everything, but I was lousy at everything,” Stan said. “I love sports, and I always thought I could bring the love I had for it to the reader.”

“And here’s where you choose to ply your craft?” Rich said.

“One might think that’s a lack of courage or ambition,” Stan said. “But I get just as big a kick, if not bigger, to write with the same vigor that I would if covering the World Series. Do you understand me?”

“That’s exactly the way Sam White thought,” Rich said. “You’re in good company.”

They finished the pizza and pitcher of beer.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 1

This is episode one of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday.

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

Episode 1

It was summer. It was hot. The air conditioning could not keep the second-story newsroom comfortable. All the men in the newsroom had their shirts open at the top, and the women wore summer attire more suited for a picnic.

Rich sat at his desk typing a story he hoped to finish by 5:00. It was 3:55. His phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

“Rich Larsen.”

“Larsen, this is Briggs. Come to my office.”

Briggs was the news editor. He had worked at the newspaper for twenty years. He dyed his hair black and had a comb-over. He fancied himself a ladies’ man. If he hired three reporters, two would be female and attractive. One of them would end up living with him until she found another news editor at a larger paper. Rich disliked that environment. His former boss, Sam White, back in Rockland, was all about good reporting and writing. Rich thought the guy he was about to see thought ‘adverb’ was the root for ‘advertising.’

Rich rapped on the door and stepped into the office. Briggs sat in a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck with his sleeves rolled up. His shirt was soaked with perspiration around the armpits. He bobbed his head and smirked.

“What’s up?” Rich said.

“You know I have you in here more than anybody out there,” Briggs said.

Rich said nothing. Where is this conversation heading? He wondered.

“Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Briggs asked.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at. I don’t keep track of who goes in and out of your office.”

“Look,” Briggs said, leaning over his desk, “the only reason I hired you is that some professor at the university knows a guy who knows a guy who said you were good. And the owner said so.”

Rich stood up straight. He looked around the office as if he hoped someone might hold up a cue card so he would have something to say.

“You’re not getting it, are you?” Briggs asked. “Don’t you ever read your articles after they go to print?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Rich said.

“I take your screed and turn it into a polished piece of well-written news.” Briggs attempted a half-smile.

Rich felt as if he were being lectured by a high school English teacher in front of the class. Everyone in the newsroom is listening, he thought with certainty.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why you haven’t got a raise?” Briggs asked, tapping a pencil against his desk. “You could make my job a lot easier if you’d learn from your mistakes. Your reporting is blah. You don’t have what it takes to craft a story. We have volunteer folks out in the community who send us better stuff than you write.”

“Sir,” Rich said, “I just get my story and write.”

“Well, the reason you haven’t got a raise is that you don’t write well. If you’d take the time to read what I edit and put in print, you might see where you could improve.”

“I’m sorry that I put that extra load on you,” Rich said apologetically.

“No raise in almost two years—doesn’t that tell you something?” Briggs said.

“If you want me to quit, just say so.”

“You see, Larsen, it’s not smart to ask someone to quit or fire someone who is hired as a favor to the owner.”

“Well, sir,” Rich said, “I’ve read what you’ve edited, and by the time it hits the print, it’s pretty much unreadable.”

Briggs slammed his hand on the desk. “You smug punk,” he snapped. “I should give you your walking papers now. I checked you out. I don’t know where you went to college, but you dropped out of school around here a few years back. How’d you ever get a diploma—two box tops of Cheerios and fifty cents?”

Rich heaved a deep breath through his nose. He blinked slowly. He didn’t mind harsh criticism if it was actually directed toward improvement. However, he was certain the real reason for the harshness was jealousy. Briggs had never learned to write well and never had to.

“Get back to your desk and start putting an edge and pizzazz in your writing,” Briggs ordered. “I don’t want oatmeal. I want bacon and eggs. And I want the bacon to sizzle.”

“Sizzle,” Rich smirked.

“Yeah,” Briggs said. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. He laced his hands behind his head. “Some people would say it’s hot; others would say it sizzles. That’s the difference between good writing and what you sent me.”

Rich clicked his cheek. “I worked under a man named Sam White for three years,” Rich said. “He won a Pulitzer and taught at Harvard. He taught me everything I know about writing. He told me I was pretty good. I only know one way to write—and that’s the right way. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

Briggs flicked his hand like he was shooing a fly. “Get back to your desk.”

Rich slowly backed away. He hesitated just outside the doorway. He was about to say something, but did not. He returned to his desk and continued typing his story.

Better Late Than Dead: Preface

 Hello, everyone.

I thought it would be appropriate to post the preface to the next novel to be serialized on The Jittery Goat. Its title is Better Late Than Dead. It begins tomorrow morning, and episodes will be posted every Monday and Friday. 

Preface

Two years passed. Rich lived in his old room. However, the seven years he had been gone were impossible to make up for. It was like living with pleasant strangers. Each went out of their way to show how kind and forgiving they were. Deep inside, Rich felt an underlying resentment, a resentment he understood. There were conversations, but Rich never felt that a true meeting of the minds had occurred. The fact was that he ran away from home at the age of 15 because he could no longer tolerate the emotional and verbal abuse he and his parents inflicted on each other.

They did everything they could to convince him they had changed, but the years of abuse inflicted on each other left scars that could not easily be hidden. 

Rich always felt as if the lid holding their emotions and anger in check was about to erupt. He was careful with every word, look, and deed. Nothing had really changed. He was always on guard. Never able to be himself. And he was certain his mom and dad were under the same stress. 

Rich found employment with a local newspaper. It was larger than the one he worked for in Rockland. The writing and reporting were not nearly as good. 

There were several reporters about his age. Just out of college. But Rich was years ahead of them in many ways. They had four years of college. Rich had seven years of writing and living. He faced things they only read about. He sailed around the world, faced dangers, corrupt people, and challenging situations; he found good people, fell in love, and was married. He coped with fear, insecurities, and deaths. Collectively, the people he worked with had not experienced what he had. 

No one at the newspaper knew he was a published writer. He never felt like he was part of the newsroom the way he did in Rockland. 

During his first six months at the newspaper and since returning, he finished his second novel. It was short. His publisher paid a small advance. After the advance was paid back, he earned a small quarterly check. 

Rich helped with farm work.

One night, Rich lay in bed. It seemed strange. He felt as if he were 15 again. He murmured, “Nothing has really changed. I have. But nothing here has changed.” 

Better Late Than Dead is Coming Soon!

 Good day, everybody. This is a reminder that this Monday, August 17th, the first episode of the novel, Better Late Than Dead, will be posted. Two episodes will be posted every week, Mondays and Fridays. 

It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure series. It takes place two years after he returned home after a seven years absense. This book will be quite an adventure for young Rich Larsen. He faces new dangers, meets a host of new characters, and examines his innermost feelings. 

The serialized version of this novel will take over 10 months to complete. The Kindle and paperback versions will be available on Amazon in September. A notice will be posted on this site (The Jittery Goat) when it becomes available.

I'm looking forward to getting it all rolling. I hope you enjoy reading each episode. Always feel free to contact me or to add your comments on any episode. 

A-4 (Composed and sung by Tim Burgess, based on a poem by Byron Lehman)

Click to hear the song A-4

A-4

I was tired, traveled, troubled when I rolled into that dusty town

Needed some filler for my stomach somethin to wash it down

Walked into a lonely dingy diner: man at the counter, waitress and the cook

They smiled, greeted me kindly, all characters from a Steinbeck book

They suggested the daily special Swiss steak, taters, succotash 

I’ll have my corn with no lima beans, I’ll have those taters mashed

Before the coffee cooled to sip my meal was slid in front of me

Needed a little junk box music, dropped a dime and selected B3

Waitress said ya got another coming, and I hope ya’ll don’t mind 

But can ya also punch A4, it happens to be a favorite of mine

I listened to my music; my mood wasn’t helped that much

Rock and roll ain’t for troubles nor a dingy dinner’s lunch 

She said she couldn’t help but notice ya look a little down in the mouth 

Every time I play A4 all my troubles travel south 

After my song was over A4 began to play 

The waitress, man and the cook joined in three-part harmony 

Come on up and join in its easy to sing with us 

So I wrapped my arms around them and joined them at the chorus 

When I left that dusty diner and headed East outside of town

I took a golden memory and laid all my troubles down

I don’t remember the words nor the title of that song

I just remember the joy we had of harmony and singing along 

The memory of their voices I carried with me from yore 

Of that dusty town in Oklahoma and a song known only as A4

From Here To 1137 AD; Episode 62, Final Episode

This is episode sixty-two of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. 

If you would like to purchase, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback. 

Hubble rushed toward Earth like a meteor. As it did, Tom dressed in slacks, a dress shirt, and a sports jacket. He wanted to be respectful yet not overdressed. 

“Brain,” Tom said, “locate the hospital Debbie is at. And have the Instaport transport me to the public bathroom on her floor.”

Hubble was soon shrouded a mile above the hospital. It was 10:06 p.m. 

Tom stepped into the Instaport station. 

“Brain,” Tom said, “access the hospital files on Debbie. Once you do that, give me the report.”

“Access will start in a minute,” Brain said.

“I’m ready to be transported,” Tom said.

Soon, Tom stood in a hospital restroom. He walked out into a hallway next to the third-floor waiting room. He saw a man with two children cuddled on each side of him. They were a boy and a girl. They looked as if five or six years old. The scene looked dire. ‘They are bracing themselves for tragedy,’ he thought.

Tom heard the little girl ask, “Will she die tonight?”

That innocent question felt as if a stake had been driven into his heart. 

“She is resting,” the man said. “And she really won’t die, she will only go to sleep. She’s very sick and very tired. She needs rest.”

“What will we do without her?” The little girl asked hopelessly.

Tom could not bear to hear any more. He was about to face his own sorrow. He needed to be thoughtful and pragmatic, yet clearly sympathetic. He did not need to be in a puddle of tears before seeing Debbie. He walked through the hallway and was not noticed by them. He walked past the nurses’ station. Behind the station, hung a whiteboard with patients' names and their room numbers.

‘Debbie,’ Tom read, ‘Room 334.’

He started in the direction of the room.

“Excuse me,” the nurse at the station said, lifting her attention away from a computer screen. “Can I help you?”

“Debbie, 334,” Tom said, “I’m an old friend from out of town. It’s been years, and I just want to see her.”

“Her family is in the waiting room,” the nurse said. “It might be best to check with them first.”

“I did,” Tom said. He smiled politely and walked toward the room. 

He stopped before entering the room. ‘She’s married,’ he thought. ‘Two kids. Maybe I should just go.’

‘Tom,’ Brain said telepathically, ‘Debbie has a heart condition. Coronary Microvascular Disease.’

‘Is it fatal?’ Tom asked.

‘In Debbie’s case, it is,’ Brain said.

Tom collected his thoughts and emotions. He quietly walked into the room. He pulled a chair close to her bed. 

Debbie appeared pale. She looked much the same as Lattice looked twenty years ago. 

The monitors made their periodic tones. Tom gazed at her face and could only curse the time he spent away. He had to come to grips with the fact that she had come to love another and with him, began to build a family and a life—a life that would end too soon.

‘She had a happy and good life,” Tom thought. ‘I'm glad she found love and happiness. And I’m glad she had a family. Their loss will be great. That should be me in there. I don’t know which is the greater pain, losing someone you longed for or losing someone close. It is selfish for me to even contemplate that my loss is greater.’ Tom held his head down and began to weep. 

Debbie’s eyes slowly opened. 

Tom felt them open. He looked up with tearful eyes and smiled.

“You’ve come back,” Debbie said. “I was just dreaming about you.”

“I just now got home,” Tom said, “and I had to see you.”

“You know, don’t you?” Debbie said.

“I know,” Tom said.

“Will you be here with me when it happens?” Debbie said.

“I will.’

“I don’t want the children and their father to be here when it does,” she said.

“I understand.”

“Do you mind if I rest for a bit?” she said. “And then we have so much to talk about.”

“That’s alright, Debbie, I’ll be right here.”

Tom placed his hand in Debbie’s.

Tom said telepathically to Brain, ‘Can something be done?’

‘I’ve programmed a feature into the healing device. Her condition is so grave that it is risky.’

‘Risky! She’s going to die anyway.’

‘I’ll Instaport the healing divine. I’ll place it by her side. When you get it, place it on her chest. Her vitals monitor will be overridden. We don’t want a nurse running in on her in the middle of a procedure.’

The healing device appeared on the bed. Tom picked it up and placed it beneath her gown on her chest.

‘How long will this take?’

‘Ten minutes,’ Brain said. ‘As soon as the procedure is complete, the device will be transported back to the pod.’

Soft buzzing tones came from the device. The monitors performed normally.

‘How long will it take for Debbie to fully recover?’

‘She will feel better immediately,’ Brain said. ‘Full recovery will take a week. It will be difficult to explain some redness on the skin and a few red puncture marks about the size of a small pimple.’

‘Thanks, Brain.’

‘You should know by now that thanks does not register with me,’ Brain said. ‘I am not programmed to accept gratitude.’

Tom watched over Debbie. The device continued its methodical healing and operational program that remained a mystery to Tom as to how it worked.

Finally, three soft beeps signaled the end of the procedure. The healing device faded, and Tom covered Debbie’s chest.

A moment later, her eyes opened widely and roved around as if confused.

“Hello,” Tom smiled.

“I feel good,” Debbie said slowly and perplexed.

“Remember the pod?” Tom said.

“Yes,” Debbie said. “And I told no one about it.”

“It has a healing device,” Tom said. “I used it on you. Your heart is okay. You can walk out of this hospital in the morning.”

A nurse rushed into the room. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

Debbie rose up. “It’s okay. He is a friend.”

The nurse rushed to her. “Friend or not, lie back down.”

“I’m fine,” Debbie said. 

The nurse squinted at the monitors. She shook her head. “You are fine. I’m calling the doctor. This isn’t right.”

“Hate to disappoint everyone,” Debbie said.

“Look,” Tom said, “I’m going to go. I just want to tell you that staying away was unavoidable, and it was impossible to contact you. But I never forgot you. Not for a moment. Bye.”

“Where are you going?” Debbie said.

“I have some things to catch up on. I came to the hospital first thing. Edgar doesn’t know I’m here. I got to square things up with him.”

“Do you still feel the same way about me as you did the day you left?” Debbie asked.

“I do, but you have children and a husband.”

“Children and a husband?”

“Yeah, a little boy and girl with your husband out in the waiting room.”

“That’s my niece and nephew, and that’s my brother,” Debbie said. “You know, the one who you used to pay to do chores for you.”

“You mean you’re not married or anything?”

“The only ‘anything’ that’s been in my life for the last twenty years is waiting for you to come back. I knew you would.”