Falling in Line

By the end of the day I had one hundred seven followers on my blog, and I had signed up for all the social media sites required of me.  In fact, on one--PeoplesHistory--I had even begun communicating with other writers in the "General Chat" forum.  And--surprise, surprise--"AgentOrange" was one of them.  How he knew I was incarcerated I can't say, but the news caused quite a stir among the forum participants.

"Oh, man, you're in Paso del Norte?" Spudmuncher wrote.  "Doing time because you won't go along with the program, eh, bro?"

Somebody called "BettyBoobs" wrote, "I bet you one horny dude, SolitaryMan.  You right hand getting plenty exercise."

AgentOrange wrote, "Did you know you can get time off for good behavior?  Set a record writing those books, find an agent, get a publishing offer, and you're out of there before you know it."

I wanted to ask him (her?) how he knew so much about Paso del Norte, but I realized he had already logged off the site.  I knew this because under his avatar--a large canister painted in green-and-tan camouflage--a caption read "last online:  1 minute ago."

I logged off the site, too, and got back to work on my book.

Often, when taking a break from my work, I would stand, slowly stretch my muscles, then stroll over to take a look at the peep show.  This time, when I did, I was presented with a completely different experience.  What I was viewing seemed "live" rather than recorded.  I appeared to be looking lengthwise down an incredibly long expanse of table nearly disappearing into the distance.  Sitting behind the table, at stations separated by mere feet, were people dressed in white shirts and blouses.  The ones closest to me I could make out quite plainly:  a man with curly blonde hair, black glasses and a wispy goatee; a woman with a quarter-sized mole on her right cheek; an attractive young brunette whose robust bosom stretched the fabric of her blouse.  Each seemed to have some kind of monitor on the table in front of them.  Detail of the other people grew fuzzier as the line of workers(?) receded into the distance.

While I watched, other people approached the individuals seated behind the table.  Although I couldn't see it I assumed there was some kind of queue where people were lined up, awaiting their opportunity to advance to a newly-vacated station.  Once in front of an open station, the people standing would turn and move to the very next station, and so on until they had, presumably, stopped in front of each one.  In this regard the activity I was monitoring very much resembled the one I had witnessed in my very first viewing of the peep show.  But this event seemed highly organized, and it was not on video loop.  I watched until the vision in my left eye grew bleary.

After my dinner of North Atlantic Salmon with Oyster Stew, a salad of green-leaf lettuce with hot red chilies, avocado slices, pomegranate, and a dessert of vanilla pudding accompanied by a chunk of rich, dark chocolate all washed down with three Somales, I was ready to get back to writing--which I did, well into the night.  Unfortunately, by morning, I had written myself smack dab into a writer's block, raising a substantial egg on my literary forehead.



Somehow--almost as if anticipating my problem--Nanime showed up the next day wearing the outfit of an American football cheerleader, replete with pompoms.  After I explained my dilemma to her, she went into a routine, dancing around as if she were cheering a team from the sidelines, shaking her pompoms at me, all the while chanting a cheer:  "Give me Letter.  Give me Sentence.  Give me Paragraph.  What it spell?"

"LiSP?" I volunteered.

She performed several other routines, doing back flips, leaping high into the air, landing with legs akimbo and sliding down into a full split.  But it was useless.  Nothing seemed to work.  I was simply unable to advance beyond the point in the story where the main character confronts the dilemma which seems to afflict every serious author:  the dreaded writer's block.

Seeing the despair that must have been painted on my face, Nanime said, "Not to worry.  No more writing today.  Let story incubate.  When I come back tomorrow I have new solution--one that always work."



She showed up the next morning right after I had slid my breakfast tray back out the door hatch.  She looked like an Eskimo dressed for an Arctic expedition:  a heavy parka with a fur-lined hood, fur-lined hand gear that resembled sixteen-ounce boxing gloves, heavily-insulated balloon-type trousers tucked into fur-lined leather boots.

While I stood in shock, my mouth hanging open, she said, "Time to start work again using try-and-true technique I call 'Strip Chapter.'  Each successful chapter you write I remove one piece clothing."

"You've got to be kidding?"

"I never kid about such thing," she said.  "After all clothing come off, you get big surprise:  gift that keep on giving."