turn down your father yet. Keep mulling it over. Think about living a more normal existence.”
“Not everyone wants a country club life.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s true, but you should be a bit more open to testing it out.”
Whitaker smiled sarcastically. He never did like country clubs. Every time he joined his family for a meal there, he felt like an outsider.
They spoke a few more minutes, and Sadie kissed him on the cheek on the way out. He told her he loved her and closed the door. The tension in his shoulders was palpable.
His mother was right. Making a living with your art was not always a good idea. Had he not enjoyed a taste of making good cash with his book, he might already happily be running Grant Construction. He might be a great husband and father. He might be mowing his green lawn at his house on the water, honing his golf game at the country club. Dropping his kids off at private school. Listening to his wife tell him about her Acroyoga session. He might be hosting Tuesday poker nights for the fellas.
But all that seemed so much less interesting than writing for a living. There was nothing like those moments when he’d sit down with his story and quickly lose himself in his own imagination. That feeling of tapping in, drawing creative fuel from some outside force, was better than any drug on the planet. The high was so lovely that he could still feel what it was like, even though he hadn’t enjoyed more than a taste of it in years. The high was so addictive that he could easily spend the rest of his life chasing it.
Whitaker glanced out the window by the front door to make sure she’d left. A man he’d seen before, wearing Converse All Stars, was walking a chestnut-colored pit bull across the park. Whitaker had a strong suspicion that this might be his guy—or at least one of them.
He slipped out the front door and sneaked to the edge of his driveway. Once he was sure he’d gone unseen, he dashed across the street into the park, finding refuge behind a giant oak tree. The park was lush green and well manicured all year round, courtesy of Florida’s tropical climate and the fine City of Gulfport landscapers willing to brave the conditions.
The dog walker was talking to the pit bull, perhaps coaxing him to poop. Where were the poop bags? Had he gotten lazy today? Whitaker hoped so. The man and his dog reached the opposite end of the park, falling out of Whitaker’s view. Blending in, the typist walked briskly as if he were getting some exercise. As if!
During the excitement, the muse finally came for a visit. He suddenly had a great idea for a poop sign. Seeing a bench, he recalled the scene in Forrest Gump when the girl on the bus said, “Can’t sit here.” Whitaker considered putting a picture of the girl on the sign with the caption Can’t shit here. He grinned and said self-mockingly, in his mother’s voice this time, “Witty Whitaker strikes again.” Couldn’t write a book, but maybe he could start a stupid-sign business.
Seeing the dog spread his legs, Whitaker sped up, preparing to run. When the man turned back, Whitaker spun the other way and feigned analyzing a nearby bird-of-paradise.
Only one thing could feel as great as writing another book or drawing a smile from his father, and that was catching this man red-handed. How long had Whitaker been spying on dog walkers? Weeks. He’d put true effort into it, as if the mayor had tapped him on the shoulder with this important task. An agent for MI6, a mission to save the world. This message will self-destruct in five seconds.
To finally have come to a conclusion, to have solved the mystery, was so gratifying that Whitaker considered taking himself out to dinner. A bone-in rib eye and a bottle of Washington State Syrah. Didn’t James Bond always dine after catching the bad guy?
Ready to finally nab the perp and celebrate his victory, Whitaker turned away from the bird-of-paradise just in time to see the man pulling a bag from his dog’s collar. How could Whitaker have missed the poop-bag dispenser attached to the dog collar? Oldest trick in the book!
Returning to his house in failure, Whitaker decided he certainly didn’t deserve a steak. He finished off a bag of boiled peanuts and fell into a deep sleep on