If you write or have ever wanted to write, everyone will tell you the same thing: write what you know! As it turns out, that is exactly what I do in all my books. Sometimes it’s a little truth I’ve made not so little. . . just for fun. In my latest book, Service Before Self, this rule of thumb applies far more than one would think. I would have to say more than half of the novel has happened to me at one time or another over the years. I have been in the industry for more than 30 years and have seen far more as well as far worse than what is in Service Before Self. There are some things I have seen and smelled that are too, let’s say, bad for public consumption.
motorcycle cops, flickr
I had a police escort – two motorcycle cops, three patrol cars, and a helicopter – to a job in a real bad part of town. They gave me fifteen minutes to board up the property. I had two helpers. There were eleven windows and three doors to make secure, and water and electric to cap off. One of the patrol cars parked at the end of the street, less than a hundred feet away.
One of the motorcycles cruised from one end of the street to the other, disappearing around the corner only to be replaced with a cruiser coming back in our direction from the other end. This pattern repeated itself over and over, growing faster and faster with each new pass. Five minutes went by. Ten minutes went by. We were going to beat our dead line. And then as the sound of the last motorcycle turning the corner began to fade, a shot rang out smashing the window I was about board up!
SWAT team, wikimedia commons
The patrol car at the end of the street instantly raced up the street to place himself and his car between me and my crew, and whoever was shooting. Then all hell broke loose. Multiple shooters began taking pot shots at us and the officer, who was now screaming at us to get out. Dozens of police cars, a helicopter, and before I could get my men and myself into my truck, SWAT showed up. There had been 41 shots in all! My crew, my truck, and I escaped unscathed because the police shielded me and mine with their vehicles and themselves.
As it turns out, that wasn’t the only time my life depended on their quick thinking. Over the years I have been shot at, and I have fought over a gun to save my life and the lives of those that work with me. I’ve been beaten up, robbed, and seen things – terrible things, smelly things, and on occasion, funny things. Yes, almost all of it makes its way into my stories.
cordless drill, wikipedia
The Devil is in the Details
In the course of my day, I travel an average of 120 to 150 miles. That amount of traveling puts me in a good number of homes by the end of each week. This past week I was repairing a faulty wall heater. As usual, everyone home at the time gathered around to watch me work, especially the children. With them in full attendance, I must watch my tools carefully. A cordless drill or flashlight is a temptation too great for many to resist.
As I lay on the floor changing out the burner assembly, Davis, a precocious five year old, has his hands on everything and is asking a hundred endless, senseless questions. His mother, also part of my audience, admonishes him repeatedly but to little or no effect. He has my flashlight, turning it on and off and shining it in my eyes. When it’s slapped from his hand by his mother, he simply grabs my cordless drill and runs around pulling the trigger, setting the remaining three children present into a frenzy of laughter and excitement.
When finally caught with the help of three adults and forced to sit down, he pouts for a few moments and then begins to inch his way back to me and my tools. He eyes his mother quickly and scoots a little closer.
Now, as it turns out, I have a couple of surgical scars that are clearly visible, and I can see him truly inspecting me for the first time.
“What happened to your head?” he asked, still inching closer to my flashlight.
Without missing a beat his mother speaks up.
“He was a bad little boy just like you, and he grew him some horns. God done reached down and slapped the horns right off his head, making him a good man to fix heaters. Is that what you want? You want God to reach down and slap the horns right off your head so you can fix heaters?”
He fidgets nervously, looking to me and then to his mother. Tears began to well in his eyes.
“No, mama,” he gulps, “I want to play drums.”
I let him keep the flashlight.
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Thanks again for taking part in the tour and hosting Tegon!