Chapter 1:

Mike Case was a good man, mostly. He usually told the truth. And he often was faithful to women. Whenever he committed one of the seven deadly sins, he felt bad about it almost every time. He said his prayers whenever he was scared about his own mortality. The minister at the church in town even knew him by name. And he'd call him by it every Christmas and Easter.

Yes, as men go, Mike was a pretty good one. But he was best when he was shooting at something. He had a gun, which he kept for Thanksgiving and, for the rest of the year, "just in case." He also had three sets of knives, and an assortment of axes for chopping wood.

It's not that Mike was a violent man. He just sometimes did violent things. The rest of the time, he did the things a peaceful man does. He would walk in the woods around his house and smoke a cigar. He'd drink his beer in the evenings and he'd pet his dog. He liked the way the pines smelled in winter. And the way the dirt felt when it was caked on his hands. He liked working with tools and with wood. He didn't so much like to build things, but he liked to fix them. He liked giving a thing new life when its old one wasn't working.

He kept a compost bin out behind his shed. When he turned it on cold winter mornings, he'd feel the gusts of warm air on his face and he'd smell the spicy, earthy smell of natural rot and decay and the poop of insects. It reminded him he had a purpose, even if this was it: to become food for bugs and microscopic things.

He still loved his ex-wife even though they always fought. Or maybe because of it. They always did know how to fight. It was one of their greatest talents. He thought one of the reasons they had gotten divorced was because they had stopped (the fighting). Now they did it every other week or so. And he had to say, it was easier to find things to fight about now. And the fighting was better than it ever was when they were married. The problem was it was harder to find the time and the place to do it (the fighting). Privacy is a tricky thing when you're divorced from one-another and seeing other people.

But Mike was a patient man, and he knew how to wait. It was one of the things that made him such a good professor. His patience. His willingness to hold back and let students arrive at something themselves. And his students loved him for it. Especially the girls. When he'd meet one-on-one with them, he'd put his feet on his desk and scratch his beard and talk them through their paper topics. He knew when they had promise—when to expect great things from them—and when to expect a book report. He knew when to push for more, and when no more could be given. He believed it wasn't their fault if they couldn't see any deeper than plot, if they didn't appreciate things like irony, or if they missed the obvious themes. He figured—or at least he hoped—they were good at something else. And some of them were. Like Brooke Alison. She was good at an awful lot of things. And some of them even had to do with reading and writing.

At one time, he had been the department head. But he'd had to step down after one of his meetings with Brooke. It was the agreement all the parties had reached so he could keep his job. The school didn't want what had happened to go public. And neither did he. And neither did Brooke. Or her parents. But that new professor, Sheryl Gates. Christ. She'd heard Brooke that evening. Explaining to Mike why she liked Hawthorne so much. At the top of her lungs.

Sheryl had been there working late on an article. And she threatened to tell everybody what she'd heard. But instead, she got tenured. And Mike made empty promises to the faculty and went back to teaching two sections of Freshman English.

It didn't make him angry, really. He respected Sheryl for doing what she did. She was good at getting what she wanted and she was willing to fight for it. He liked a woman that knew how to fight.


Two

I don't like him. At least, I don't like the version of him I'm making. But sometimes that's necessary. Not liking a character is sometimes the best inspiration to writing one. Of course, there's the underlying issue—the fact that this one's actually real. Well sort of. I mean he's real. But he's also what I've made him to be. Which might not be entirely accurate. Or even somewhat so. But he's right to me. Right in being wrong.

So, good work, me. I think I'll have another drink.

And tomorrow I'll start on chapter two...

Category: Fallout