What follows is an early draft of what ultimately became Chapter 1 of "Burritos and Gasoline." Rather than post the later version that's included in the book, it seemed more sporting and potentially entertaining for devoted readers, to post a rough draft. Most readers never see a copy of a favorite story as it was before the author's proof readers, editors and conscience nag at him enough to cause him to do a rewrite, filling the story out with greater detail and depth.

    I hope you enjoy this peek behind the scenes at the raw copy, as it flowed onto the keyboard for the first time.

 

Chapter 1

   
    It seems that life has an inertia all its own. A force that propels unfortunate souls like myself through doorways we know we’d be better off not walking through. It pushes us to do things we’d be better off not doing. Yet somehow, against our own better judgment, we do them anyway. And so we pay the price or reap the benefits, as the case may be, for being so habitually reluctant to heed our own inner voices.

    It was several years ago, in July, that my story really began. I remember the particulars distinctly. It was a Friday afternoon. The time was five minutes after five o’clock. The sun was still hours away from disappearing behind the curvature of the earth, although it was shaded mightily by a steel gray Manchester sky that caused the look and feel of the whole day to run together. The calendar said it was summer. But the sky looked more like late fall. The thermometer struggled throughout the damp afternoon to reach 70 degrees. Even so, the day had overtones of the chilly, depressing nature of late fall. The atmosphere looked and felt more or less the same at seven in the morning as it had at lunchtime. By five minutes after five in the afternoon, nothing had changed much.

    As I pushed my way through the door to the personnel department, which was my habit at 5:05 on Friday afternoon, I took three steps toward Mildred Hanrahan’s desk and extended my right hand without comment. This wasn’t an expression of affection or gratitude. In retrospect, I have to admit I'm ashamed that I never showed poor Mildred the least bit of courtesy. Back then I saw her as something of a cash machine, nothing more. For Mildred was the secretary to Ted Winters, the personnel manager at the dumpy little company where Mildred and I both worked. A company that shall remain nameless for fear of possible litigation. I'm sure you can understand my reluctance to name names, under the circumstances.

    It was Mildred's sad task to hand out paychecks every Friday afternoon to a long line of hurried, haggard employees who wanted nothing more than to get their checks and hit the bars hard and fast. It was a duty that she performed without the slightest hint of enthusiasm or charm.

    Who could blame her, really?

    My hand remained extended momentarily, but no envelope passed between Mildred and me as was usual. Instead she spoke, a fact that in and of itself should have been my first tip-off that something was amiss. Mildred never spoke to me. I never spoke to her either. All in all, we were even.

    “Ted wants to see you.” she chirped, chewing a wad of gum that was big enough to have been of use to a plumber.

    “About what?” I asked. The suspicious nature of the moment began to dawn on me. Mildred just looked up at me wearily, chewing to beat the band. She never got the chance to answer.

 

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Copyright © Jamie Beckett - 2005. / Last revised: October 26, 2006.