OK it's not quite as "Constantly Improving" As It Used to Be

            Alright I'm going back to get a Masters.  Whew!  Let's all get Masters degrees.  If all goes according to plan I will go back and be a professor at some point.  And then everything is awesome.
           Things are going pretty not-bad though.  Reading a lot of books.  Working on IT right now.  Read a pretty good one about storytelling (mainly screenwriting) by David McKee called "Story".
           Well, no excuses this time!  A certain amount of words a day (2,000) for (indefinitely). 

His name is Matilda.  Mr. Matilda.  He wears his slacks loose and his eyeglasses on the top of his head.  His arms were always crossed, his eyes always on his watch.  The black door to an all white house opens and gets caught on the rug, he pulls it closed again.  It reopens, and the same problem again.  He gets on his hands and knees and pries the matt out from under the door, muttering under his breath.  He stands up and brushes the dirt off of his pants, his keys cutting through his pocket.  He works to untangle them.

            The dog Rodney watches from the window every morning when Mr. Matilda leaves, dust floating in the air in the sunlight in the kitchen.  He stands on the kitchen table with his leash in his mouth and disappears and reappears as he jumps in front of the triangular window. The freshly cropped grass stopped an inch in front of the sidewalk on each side, the abandoned Carolla with the tires removed still sitting in front of the fire extinguisher.  Mr. Matilda looked at the car and shook his head, continuing down the drive.  He jots a note in a little notebook, “Call about car still being there.”  He walks closer to the car to potentially check it out but his beeper buzzes and he regains his poise.

            He looks exhausted, his hair is messy, his face is shadowed with stubble.  He drinks his coffee, which is already cold.  Shaves his face with an electric razor, slicks his hair back with pomade.

            Mr. Matilda wears a dark black pinstriped suit dotted with speckles of dust.  He holds a powder coloured box in his lap, even while he’s on the drivers side.  He fidgets with a pair of handcuffs, looking at the little loop on the powdery cake box, and when he can’t get them open throws them in the backseat.

            Being alone in a big place.

            Mr. Matilda rolls the driver’s side seat way back.  He is now prepared to start the vehicle.  The car purrs and drifts out of the driveway, like a leaf on a river.  He presses the stereo button on .  A news reporter talks in a unobtrusive voice about weather and the construction of a local bridge.  Mr. Matilda sighs and starts whistling a tune.  He had never been to the other side, East Winchester City.  He used to know a girl who lived over there, although that sounds like a detective story cliché.

            “My baby left for Mexico, she’ll never be back, never be back.” An old country western tune starts up.  Mr. Matilda shut off the radio with a shutter, watches the rearview mirror for awhile sporadically while screwing with the radio.  He pops the tave out of the tape deck and it briefly reads, “Songs from Petuna.”.  Mr. Matilda throws it in the little spot between the gas and the stereo. 

            He checks his map.  He references his watch, and then looks back at the map, and then up at the compass in his car which is broken.  A wry smile flashes across his lips.

            He drives past a sign that shows the name of the town he lives in is “Kingpin” with a populatioin of 405.  The sign is flanked on both sides by fake looking palm trees, and the street up ahead reveals square bungalows.  He looks back in the rearview mirror, where we see a bridge that he obviously has just crossed.

            He pulls into the gas station, it’s darker now.  He gets gas and watches a car go by, the man driving looks at him through the lowered window.  He has a big silver moustache and a cowboy hat.  Mr. Matilda stands more profile and lights a cigarette against the prevailing wind.  He watches as cars pass, everyone eyeballing him, and sees an emormous black SUV emerging from the end of the street.  He puts out the cigarette quickly and hops back in the car, letting out an exhale of relief as it passes.

            He pulls into the parking lot of a small diner.  He comes around to the opposite side of the car and removes the small package.  A man meets him at the door with a clipboard and circles him, evaluating the condition of the box.  Mr. Matilda starts walking toward the front door of the diner and the man comes from behind him, putting an arm around him and guiding him around to a door on the back.  Old men and women sit at the booths drinking orange juice and staring at mounds of pancakes.  A small child watches them as they try to walk discretely, and the fat man pushes him by the face.  He falls back and watches from a distance.

            “What’s in the box?!”  He yells from far away.

            The man leads Mr. Matilda inside a waiting room where he gestures to have a seat.  The walls are decked out with prints of italian opera posters.  A few black and white pictures depict enormous families, from a distance it looks like an impressionistic painting of a skyline. 

Mr. Matilda sits in one of the two red foam chairs against the wall.  There are windows across from him, and he holds the box in his lap.  Mr. Matilda looks down at his watch and it says “3:15” and then he looks at a sheet that says “Be there at 3:15 exactly.”  He let’s out a sigh and relaxes in the chair, then checks out the magazine selection. He spins the magazine easel twice, finding nothing that interests him. It’s mostly old Sports Illustrated for Kids.  Suddenly his stomach rumbles and he remembers the restaurant around the corner.  He gets up to leave and the man, whom some call “Martin”, attempts to take the powdery box from him.

            “You couldn’t possibly take this box into the restaurant, sir.”

            “It’s coming with me wherever I go, tough guy.”

            “I’ll take it for you.”

            “Fat chance, rascal.”

            He sits back with his arms crossed.  Time passes quickly, the clock spins.  A secretary admits people over the intercom.  The blinds on the opposite side of the window open a crack and a set of eyes looks past the index finger which is holding it open.  The walls in the room are painted dark red, as opposed to the peeling powdery blue of the waiting room office.