vinegar. The sandwich Jedi in the hairnet put together a masterpiece of a sub that could barely be contained by wheat or wrapper.
When he got home, Whitaker settled onto the sofa and tore into his sub. Vegetables and condiments spilled out onto the coffee table.
“Integrity and a good sandwich,” he said with a mouthful. “I guess some people have less than that.”
He took another bite, shaking his head at the marvel the sandwich lady had put together. Once he’d plowed through the first half and washed it down with Doritos and a Coke, Whitaker picked up the first composition book, accidentally putting a fingerprint of oil on the first page next to David’s note to Claire. He dried it off with a napkin and flipped to the first sentence.
“This is where it all begins, right?” Whitaker said. Addressing the author, he said, “David, why did you choose to write that first sentence? What compelled you to tackle a novel?” Another lesson Whitaker had learned in writing was that there was only one true reason that you wrote a book: because you had no other choice.
Was that true of David? Was this a story he had to tell no matter what, as if his life depended on it? And what pains had he suffered along the way?
Whitaker put his feet up on the sofa and reread the first chapter.
The protagonist, Kevin, found a young boy named Orlando breaking into his car in the driveway. He wore white sneakers. His brown hair fell over his hardened eyes. And he’d just smashed the passenger-side window with a crowbar when Kevin saw him from the den. Racing out the door, Kevin attempted to grab him, but Orlando swung the crowbar. Kevin barely dodged the attempt. With adrenaline kicking in, he slammed Orlando to the ground and pinned him down with a knee.
With his eyes now wet with fear, Orlando pleaded, “Don’t call the police. They won’t give me another chance.”
“You should have worried about that before you broke my window, punk!” Kevin yelled, while pressing Orlando’s face into the concrete.
“Please, I’m begging you.” He spat pavement dust, the toughness bleeding out of him.
“You want me to let you go so you can do this to someone else? This isn’t my first rodeo.”
The chapter ended with Kevin indecisively staring at his phone with his pointer on the final “1” button, as if it were his finger alone that controlled the boy’s future.
Surprisingly, Whitaker found himself invested in the main characters. As he moved through the pages of absolutely stunning handwriting, several realizations came to him. He paused after the first chapter to mull them over.
Whitaker knew nothing about Claire’s husband. (Wait, was it husband or ex-husband? Maybe deceased husband?) He hadn’t even seen a picture of David, but he knew that by reading these words and by getting to know Kevin, he was also getting to know David.
In the story, Kevin was in his midthirties and wading through a midlife crisis of sorts. Wasn’t everyone in their mid to late thirties? Was David suffering from a similar fight? Was he a happy guy? Was he searching for something? How was his marriage with Claire?
The beginning pages revealed that Kevin had been dumped recently and was feeling like he might never marry. Did this predicament say anything about Claire and her marriage to David? It certainly made Whitaker empathize with him. There was nothing worse than a woman telling you it was over.
Whitaker got the feeling that David was a solid guy, the kind of man Whitaker might have been friends with. The writing was pretty good, but more importantly, he had a lovely view of the world and a unique sense of humor. When it came to writing from the heart, David had the ability. You could teach a writer to follow the rules, but you couldn’t show someone how to pour his heart onto a page.
When Kevin gave Orlando the choice of going back to juvie or working in the yard to pay off the broken car window, the reader, including Whitaker, was given a deep glimpse into Kevin’s soul.
Whitaker fell back into the story as he reveled in David’s novel. By the time he reached the end of the first composition book, he was absolutely immersed. Things would need to be touched up if he accepted the project, which was a possibility taking root. There were, of course, grammar issues amid David’s artful calligraphy, and spots with too much telling. There were sections