This is truly a novel-in-progress. In other words, it is not finished—I’m writing it as you’re reading it. I do not know how it will turn out because I am trying to stay true to “the creative process” and letting the characters; the setting; the situations; and the times lead me to discover what happens next as I continue the writing…
If you’re here at the beginning, welcome; and I hope you find a reason to continue checking in regularly as I attempt to add a chapter a week or so. If this process has already begun, when you check in, please go to the archives and begin at chapter one and catch up. I might also rewrite or add elements to chapters already published, and I’ll attempt to alert you to these changes if and when they occur.
Obviously, this method encourages comments and I do welcome your input. Please understand that I’m not looking for a couple a dozen copyeditors (though I do want to avoid egregious errors) and that I am not obligated to make changes that are suggested (though I might); but rather I want to include you, my readers, in an ongoing constructive attempt to write a new novel. If nothing else, this setup will encourage me to keep writing because I will have an obligation to those of you who are interested in following the story’s progress.
I hope you find this concept stimulating and that you’ll get a kick out being there at, or pretty near, inception. I believe that this is a unique way of going about writing a novel, and that it will be a shared positive experience.
Please see the current chapter, which follows immediately:
Casco Viejo: the Second Season
Chapter One
Joe Berger arrived in Panama with high hopes. He hoped to meet some interesting new people—people who would also be interested in meeting him. For the past ten years, since his second divorce, that’s been a problem—women in bars who turned away as if he were a leper; job interviews that made him wonder about his breath; e-mails that didn’t get a response; investments that turned sour; an elderly father, who remarried “the Bitch.” Joe didn’t feel desperate exactly, though at times “kinda”, but he definitely was actively seeking a brand new set of relationships.
The sidewalk café, where he sat alone sipping a Panama beer (that’s what it was named, so Joe figured when in Rome…) was located in front of a bar/restaurant called Casa Blanca that fronted onto Bolivar Square, with a rather magnificent monument to Simon Bolivar, the South American liberator, in the center. Several people wandered by under the mushroom shaped Fica trees, a number of Panamanians, who maybe worked in the government offices nearby and a few very white tourists in Bermuda shorts, bright white sneakers, and baseball hats, with cameras at the ready; but nobody stopped for a late afternoon drink. The large patio umbrellas offered little shade as the sun still glared.
When the department store he managed went out of business (What turned out to be an early symptom of the recession that was on the way.), he decided he didn’t have to stay in Miami and managed to sell his condo, right before the bottom fell out of that market. Panama, according to a couple of magazine articles he read, was “the next hot spot,” so he jumped off the cliff and moved (both of his ex-wives would say he “fled…”) to Panama. It wasn’t a totally blind leap; after all, he looked it up on the internet; a small, rather prosperous Central American country, best known for being cut in half by the Panama Canal.
Both of his adult daughters from his first marriage were virtual strangers, one was married to a golf pro in Georgia and the other was on the west coast, whatever that meant. So when his father, who had been a widower for eight years, remarried, Joe soon realized that he no longer had a family. “The Bitch” had five grown children of her own—a real working class bunch—two fat married mommies with multiple children and a plumber, complete with low-riding jeans and a too-small tee shirt; a fireman; and a mailman, who preferred being referred to as a postal worker. Joe sincerely believed that he had made an effort to embrace his extended family, (The fireman talked about “apparatus” and expected Joe to know to what he was referring.), but never felt that they gave “a flying fuck” about him. “The Bitch” never even made an attempt to pretend that she had a positive feeling toward her step son. At 50, Joe hardly considered her a mother figure and never referred to her as his stepmother; but realized he felt more as if she were his mother-in-law, with all the unwelcome connotations that implied. He missed his mother, a sweet though distracted little woman, who died when a third stroke attacked her frail brain. His father had spent the last ten years of their marriage taking care of a woman that neither he nor his son recognized as the woman they loved when they were younger. However, Joe believed that he would still have been a part of “a family” had his mother still been alive. His father who was then 73 had been assimilated as part of the inheritance system by “the Bitch” and her offspring and didn’t even remember his son’s birthday the previous year.
Joe didn’t get it. He wasn’t bad looking, kinda average at 5’11” with gray hair that really hadn’t thinned that much. And the weight he lost, from 210 to a very respectable 185, made him feel sleek, except nobody seemed to notice; or care. Even though he tried to be a good listener, even when folks rattled on about their golf scores or grandchildren; and in spite of putting forward a friendly smile and a firm handshake, people didn’t take to him. In Miami, he was in a rut; a couple of loser friends, who were no help on the dating scene; his regular foursome at the club, who teased him more than necessary; one or two lady friends, who he’d escort to the Valentine’s charity dance for heart disease or the Halloween charity dance for breast cancer, with no real prospect of sex afterward, unless they were really drunk and then what was the point?
Joe Berger pulled the plug. Nothing half ass. Panama was definitely somewhere else; with, as one of the magazines pointed out, a lively and growing group of expats mostly from the States, but also from Canada and Europe. With so many people from all over, Joe reasoned, chances of meeting new people were heightened, almost exaggerated. He hadn’t met anybody “new” in awhile, but in Panama, everybody was new and obviously open to new experiences and so how hard could it be?
Okay, he couldn’t speak Spanish, but the guidebooks said that English was spoken “extensively in Panama City,” so Joe figured he could get along on his rudimentary south Florida Cuban style el espanol—muchas gracias y por favor. The guidebooks lied. Maybe in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel, a form of English was attempted, but no taxi drivers; waiters or waitresses; store clerks; police officers; or people on the street seemed interested in even giving English a try. Instead, they spoke very rapidly, which meant for Joe that even the few words he knew, flew by unrecognized, much less understood. “No problemo,” Joe thought, “I’ll take Spanish lessons.”
He decided to rent a small apartment in a restored building in Casco Viejo, for all the right reasons. Casco Viejo literally meant old town, and was located out on a peninsula by Panama Bay looking out on to the continuously growing skyline of towers rising all along the waterfront. Joe hadn’t really expected the city to look like Hong Kong, but was pleased with the apparent scene of prosperity and growth, while at the same time being able to hang out in an area that looked like a rather run-down colonial capital, with narrow cobblestone streets, and wrought-iron balconies decorated with potted plants. His real estate agent told him that many expats were moving into the renovated buildings because the area had been declared a World Heritage site like old San Juan. With squatters playing loud salsa music in some of the buildings, Casco Viejo seemed to have a long way to go, but to Joe at least, also appeared to be headed in the right direction, with plenty of new people moving in.
The biggest flaw in his plan, as Berger saw it, was that he didn’t really have that much to offer. If he could get past the opening series of polite inquiries:
Where ya from? Miami. No problem.
Married? Even better—no, divorced. After all, he hoped to meet some lady, lonely and looking.
But:
What doya do? I’m retired.
What didja do? Well, I used to manage a Thrift Center, but then they all closed, if you remember … No, that would not impress. Joe knew that from a disappointing career of experience. He figured he would be meeting, hoped he would be meeting airline pilots and their still pretty ex-stewardess wives; artists; gamblers; real estate speculators; published authors; wealthy widows; college professors; world travelers all, who would delight him with their stories set in L.A. and/or London; Mexico City and/or Cyprus. But what could he be, that would impress or at least interest, his new found friends?
Being a store manager had not brought happiness in the past, and so Joe had no intention of being that in the future. Stock broker? Didn’t know enough and could get slipped up in a minute, by people who were actually experts, who could afford to winter in Panama. Engineer? Either/or, most people would have no idea or really care about nuclear reactors on submarines, but if somebody did, Joe knew nothing. Soldier of fortune? Don’t be ridiculous. Hey, wait a minute, how about sports agent? One thing Joe knew plenty about was sports, and lot’s about the Miami Heat (season tickets) and the Dolphins—plenty of names he could drop and only had to be wary of other folks from South Florida. Heck, Joe was the commissioner of his NFL fantasy league for the past two years (Things got lonely on the weekends.), and he had read Billy Blackburn’s book Getting Paid about being a big-time agent and he had loved Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. So that was his new persona—retired sports agent at 50, made some money; too stressful, needed to kick back and relax with a lovely tropical change of scenery. It might just work.
The only problem, so far, was that he hadn’t met anybody. The Panamanian real estate agent, who spoke pretty good English, was youngish and good looking and obviously not interested in hooking him up, though she did mention that there was plenty going on in Casco Viejo—jazz concerts on Wednesday evenings; a flea market every Saturday; and a number of restaurants. He even tried the sports agent angle on her, but it didn’t even register. So there he sat, sipping from a dripping glass, with almost as much sweat glistening on his forehead. The tropical humidity would take some getting used to. He tried a confident, nonchalant pose with an expectant tilt of his head, when a blonde woman in a low-cut yellow sun dress, (“Nice tits,” thought Joe.), who looked to be in his age bracket, walked by; but she took no notice, and continued down Calle Quatro with a slice of sea view at the end of the street.
Walking briskly down the middle of the street in the opposite direction was small white dog, with four black paws and a harlequin face, half black, half white. The woman stopped and petted the dog, which stood patiently welcoming the attention. “Jesus,” Joe thought, “that dog has more luck than I do.” Then the dog almost passed by, but turned and stood expectantly next to Joe’s chair. “Well, aren’t you the social butterfly,” Joe said as he held his palm out for the dog to lick. That’s when Berger noticed the collar, a thin leather band around his new friend’s neck. Definitely a mutt, short wiry hair, looked a bit like a medium sized terrier, except for two floppy ears bent in the middle and a rather long tail that curved up at the end.
Joe slid two dollars under the sweating glass. Beers only cost a buck and Joe knew he was over tipping but he didn’t have any change, and so he headed back to his sparsely furnished apartment about a block away. The dog walked beside him as if trained, but stopped at the door for one final pet. “See ya later,” said Joe as the dog turned and sauntered off down the narrow sidewalk, as a yellow taxi passed by closely.
There was a sheet of paper scotch taped to the wall by the stairs, with clip-art palm trees and bold type in bright blue. Joe’s heart actually leapt when he read the notice:
Happy Hour This Friday
5 to 7 p.m.
By the Pool Deck, on the Roof
For All Residents of The Columbus House
Beer and Wine provided
please bring a dish or a nibble
“This is great,” Joe thought, “I’ll finally get to meet somebody.” Berger took the steps up to his second-floor apartment two at time. Friday was only two days away.
