Bottom line: The bloody Big Apple won’t let me go.
*looks down at fingertips scraped raw from a furious attempt at crawling across the Brooklyn Bridge”
Come on! The coast of western Sicily anxiously awaits me and my Pound guys’ arrival. Doesn’t anybody in New York freaking care?
For months (honestly, it seems like years at this point) a small though spectacular fishing village hugging a long necklace of sandy coves against its bosom has been eyeing the horizon for Book Two of “The Lion and the Steed” series. Little Capo has been making ready its charming harbor forever and I fear their patience is running thin.
But with only five days left until the novel’s deadline, have Sam and Brevyn even made it to JFK yet?
The last time I saw their troublesome though gorgeous butts was in Gramercy Park. And let’s just say they were caught up in a lot of “hot and heavy.” That big old “Do NOT Disturb” sign was welded to their door and no amount of pounding, begging, cajoling or screaming on my part would get them headed in the right direction… the right direction would be SICILY!
Frank, my not-so friendly specter of imminent failure, has made himself quite a nest at the end of my couch at this development. I believe my mother is now crocheting an afghan for him.
Lola, his freaky parrot (an addition to my mania I really did not need), is busy rattling off random subway stops from the top of Frank’s fat head.
My ever loyal and “always looking for a rumble” dog has taken to shooting spitballs at the stupid bird’s head.
Stupid bird has creepy-good reflexes though and has avoided most of the barrage. Just my luck to have a particularly limber imaginary parrot, right?
Alright, I’m giving New York City one more day. That’s it.
And if that stupid bird knows what’s good for it, it better start shutting the heck up…
My dog’s just stomped off into the kitchen muttering something about Molotov cocktails.