On dark days, the Blue Bridge
days, the Blue Bridge took on a sickly greenish color and
the waves underneath it seemed to be gnashing their
crests. Always, on days like these, Maxwell forces himself
to write about the positive aspects of his life as a male
escort. Otherwise, it was way too easy to do what everyone
else wanted him to do, which was talk about misery and
hopelessness and despair.
suffered under those emotions on occasion, just like
everyone else, but for the most part he thoroughly enjoyed
his avocation and was creatively inspired by it.
on his balcony watching the sun preparing to set, Maxwell
taps words out on his laptop's keyboard. As he completes
each sentence, he reads it aloud and make appropriate
changes. He'd been working on this one story for about a
week now, ever since his neighbor, Cynthia
something-or-other dropped by to talk about the weather.
He's gotten the feeling she had something else on her
mind, and he was right in his assumption.
Eventually Cynthia got to the point, which was to dump;
begin the slow process of telling Maxwell her life story.
One of the reasons, Max knew, that he made such a great
escort was his ability to draw stuff out of people. He had
always had an ability to make folks, men and women, to
feel comfortable under any circumstances. By the time Ms.
Hemingway - that's what her name was - Cynthia Wiles
Hemingway - by the time she left, Maxwell had enough to
write a book.
the course of the evening, Max realized that Cynthia had
no clue whatsoever about what he did for money; and he
wasn't about to tell her. When she left, however, he had
gotten the idea for the story he was working on. What if
he could draw out his own tale and maybe embellish it a
bit. Couldn't he weave a yarn about a guy with a double
life and a
Tooie and Jack the Bump