Writer's Block by Akablonded

[alyburns]

Title: Writer's Block
Author: akablonded
Fandom: The Sentinel
Category: Slash/AU
Pairing: J/B
Moonridge Year: 2005
Who won the story: Multiple donators (this was part of the 2005 Moonridge My Mongoose E-Zine)

Warnings: None

Notes:
THE WIFE OF INDRA - A position in the Kama Sutra described as one offering "highest congress," i.e., maximum penetration.
"INVICTUS" - A poem by William Ernest Henley.

WRITER'S BLOCK
by akablonded

Fade into the den of a mega buck house. On the side of a hill. In Connecticut. Scratch that. New Mexico. Yeah. That's good. Taos, specifically. Even better.

No. No. Let's go with a Malibu beachfront. Something next to Spielberg. Or maybe Quentin Tarantino would be better. (Does QT live in Malibu? I'll have to check that little factoid out.)

Picture a fairly decent looking guy, longish hair, earring, sitting on the deck, sipping something tall and cool, surrounded by a loving family. Wife, kids, Lab named Pal.

No. Nix the dog.

Make that one or two scorching starlets looking up adoringly from their scanty bikinis.

Hell. This stinks. And it always happens when I've hit a writer's block, and can't come up with the opening paragraph of an article that's due next month. No. Hang on. I'm wrong. Next week.

Whenever I've boxed myself into a creative corner, I start doing my PEOPLE Magazine interview, complete with photo ops up the butt. The one I'm going to have after I've written the great American novel.

Or the great American screenplay.

Or the great American sitcom on TV (on cable, if I want putz jokes galore). Whatever the hell brings me fame, recognition, bags full of money. Loot. Moolah. Shekels. Swag. Wonga. Filthy lucre. And, just to show that I'm an international kind of guy: lira, pounds, francs, rands, pesos, and let's not forget the Albanian leke.

And I still don't have an idea in hell about this damned article for HIGHER PURSUITS. That's the in-flight magazine for Coastal Airways, based here on the West Coast.

I have an ongoing love/hate relationship with writing. Ernest "Papa" Hemingway used to say that the most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector.

Unless you're full of it, like me, and you spend half your life sniffing at yourself.

The truth is that I started writing when I was a kid. Back then, I was sickly and runty -- a rug rat with oversized glasses and a Medusa's head of out-of-control hair -- I had a bad case of asthma which, more often than not, kept me indoors. I had lots of time on my hands, and not many friends to help fill it.

Life with asthma was a "bitchette" -- until I got hit by a car. That pretty much made the asthma look like a walk in the park.

It took me quite a while to get better. My mom was just one of the millions of uninsured single parents in the U.S., struggling to have a decent life with her sick kid. She was "without funds" most of the time. She also had a streak of wanderlust a mile wide. So, there we were - the two of us, on buses, trains, in wrecks of cars. Her, with a road map in her hand; me, with a healing crystal around my neck and braces on my legs. The physical therapy I got was sort of slap-dash. We'd go to clinics when we'd settle somewhere long enough to get me into the available public health care system.

Still, if it hadn't been for one or two really great guys Naomi hooked up with along the way - men who loved my gypsy Madonna of a mother and genuinely liked her kid and wanted to help -- I'd probably have one leg shorter than the other, and walk with a lot more difficulty than I do.

Back to writing. Or not writing, to be more accurate. When I'm hitting rock bottom and blocked to beat the band, I tend to wander around a library, like this one at Rainier University, for inspiration. After a decent amount of time, the muses take pity on poor old Blair Sandburg, and lob an idea into my head, which rattles my brain, and gets me to put fingers to keyboard, or pen to lined yellow pad. (Sometimes, pencil to backs of envelopes or napkins.)

Truth is, I've always had a way with words and loved telling stories. I've always been good at both. Even as a snot-nose brat, I used to save myself from getting the bejeezus pummeled out of me by talking. And sometimes, I could get people to stick around - at least for a while - if I spun a good yarn.

And I guess it was only natural that I'd start putting some of the stuff down on paper. I tried selling my first story when I was nine. I marched into the offices of the Ames, Iowa SHOPPER'S GUIDE, with what I thought was a hard news article -- about cows. The editor, Dave Padgett, was a large, blustery man, who smelled of printer's ink and Marlboros. He actually took the time to read my "column" - complete with byline -- then sit me down, and give me the good news/bad news chalk- talk.

The good news was that I showed talent and promise - and could write a decent sentence.

The bad news was that since I'd never actually spent any time with cows, it showed.

The first lesson of the day was: write what you know. The second: if you don't know anything, learn.

I also followed Mark Twain's words of wisdom: "Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, sawing wood is what you were intended for."

Somewhere along the way, a fucking amazing thing happened. I didn't have to start sawing down trees, because I started selling my stuff.

I'm what you'd call a true utility writer. You name it, I've written it. I've done manuals, and teaching aids, and articles, and pamphlets, and brochures. I've even written an erotic story or two, which paid enough that I could get some much needed dental work done.

Then, there are some dynamite stories and intriguing subjects squirreled away in a "to do" section of my brain. When I was about 12, I stumbled across one of them in THE SENTINELS OF PARAGUAY by Sir Richard Burton - the explorer, not the actor.

It was the stuff my dreams have been made of.

I actually got to see a copy of Burton's monograph at Columbia's Butler Rare Books Library. (The head librarian took a shining to me - and the fact that "no" didn't exist in my vocabulary. "No's" always been the point where I start negotiating.)

Anyway, the sentinel material was a wild read. The idea went something like this: in all tribal cultures every village had what Burton named a "sentinel." Now this was someone who patrolled the border. Not a scout exactly -- more like a watchman. The sentinel would track approaching enemies, changes in the weather, movement of game. Tribe survival depended on it. A sentinel was chosen because of a genetic advantage -- a sensory awareness that could be developed beyond those in normal humans. Those senses were honed by solitary time spent in the wild. From what I could tell, Burton's monograph was, at first, disputed and then basically forgotten.

Personally, I never had much success finding someone who might just be "the real deal" - my very own sentinel. Oh, I could find documented cases of people with maybe one or two hyperactive senses. You know, like taste and smell ... people who work for coffee and perfume companies. Oh, and in Vietnam, the long-range Army recon units were forced to change their diets to fish and rice because Cong scouts could smell Westerners by their waste. But not a single subject with all five. When I was younger, I used to think it was 'beshert,' the Yiddish word for 'fated,' that someday an actual sentinel would drop into my lap. But, as an adult - well, at least someone who's pushing 30 -- that's pretty much like saying someday I'll meet up with Santa Claus or the East Bunny. Ain't gonna happen.

And I guess I'm going on and on about this because I still have to hunker down and figure out what the hell I'm going to write about, and, right now, I'd like to do pretty much anything except write. Well, if I don't come up with a topic for my article soon, I'd better start sharpening my damned ax.

***

This isn't half bad. It's all bad. Who the hell's going to want to read a profile of Lake Quincy and the Watumsa Indians? What else ... what else ... think, Blair. You're supporting a mechanic who's keeping the Volvo alive and a mother who's off getting her aura read somewhere in Mexico.

It's kind of funny. When I play the "what if" game, I do sometimes wonder what if I'd done the serious college scene, got a degree in something like archeology, or even anthropology. Either of those fields would have been a ticket to travel to "faraway places, with strange-sounding names." I think I might have even been a better-than-average teacher.

Or I might have been a cowboy.

The only profession I never, ever considered was the military. Blair Sandburg, spit and polished, with short hair under a helmet, in khaki everything? No way.

Who in his right mind would join the Army to see the world? Plus which, I look so bad in camouflage, you wouldn't believe it.

I wonder if there's anything around the campus that might be fodder for my 2,000 words. Doesn't the University run some kind of experimental farm/research facility?

Hell. B-O-R-I-N-G.

That Hargrove Hall has an interesting design and decent masonry work. Nice fountain in front, too. Maybe if I dig around, I might find that somebody half-way famous had something to do with it. Or that something interesting happened there. Would architecture be interesting to anyone?

God. B-O-R-I-N-G squared.

Okay. Desperation time. Let's see if anything in the stacks kicks my muse in her enormous, inert ass. One hundred ... philosophy and psychology. To be -- and obsess about it? No thanks. 200 ... religion. Yeah, and maybe I can throw in sex and politics. Pass. 300 through 600 ... social sciences, language sciences and mathematics, technology ... People are snoring already. 700 ... the arts. I see the magazine editor executing a perfect step-ball-chain as he kicks me out of his office. 800 ... literature ...900 ... geography and history ... hey, it's been a while since I've reread any of Burton's works. A library this size has to have something. After all, he wrote 43 books, along with translations of the Arabian Nights, The Perfumed Garden, not to mention the Kama Sutra.

Maybe a copy of Mary Lovell's book (my favorite), A RAGE TO LIVE. If it's here, it should be in Non-Fiction. B-B-B-B-B-B- ...Pearl Buck ... Jimmy Buffett ... Carol Burnett ... Aaron Burr ... Richard Burton - six, count 'em, six books about the actor, and ... Shit. Shit on a shingle. There's a big hole where the "other" Burton books should be. There must be a second Burton freak floating around.

This is like so weird. What are the chances there'd be someone else with a Major League jones for a pretty damned obscure 19th Century Brit? Hang on a minute. Well, son-of-a-bitch. There they are -- a pyramid of Burton books piled neatly on the table over there.

Okay. Time to Sherlock-Holmes it. Let's see if I can pick the freak out. Trust me, I am good at matching people with their reading material. (I'm usually right about 95 percent of the time.)

Not many people roaming around. How about the 20-something in the suit? No. She's more 'poly sci' or law. Yeah. Interning for some big mucky-muck law firm.

Not the kid in the retro tie-dye. Chem major by the look and smell of him - he's stained and there's no mistaking traces of a sulfide wafting in my direction.

It's like having Pepe LePew sitting a few chairs away from you.

Hang on. What about ... never mind. Couldn't be him. No way. Not G.I. Joe over there. Probably here to check out the latest issue of SOLDIER OF FORTUNE magazine. Or, pre-supposing he doesn't move his lips when he reads, he might be tackling Sun Tzu's ART OF WAR.

'Charles Atlas' might also be cruising the physical fitness section. Jesus. You could actually wash clothes on those abs. And the muscles bulging out through the tight, gray tee-shirt look as though they're cut from granite.

The shirt's got some kind of insignia on it. I'll be damned. C.P.D. --- Cascade Police Department. Mr. Perfect's a cop? Hey, it's a valid life choice. And I'm not like my mom, one of the original flower children. She never gets closer to a "pig" than she has to.

No sir, I won't hold his being a boy-in-blue against him. I know what I'd like to hold against him.

Down, Blair, down. On the other hand, maybe he bought the shirt at a yard sale.

Jesus H. Christ on a cross. He is the Burton freak. A guy like that? I bet he's boning up, if you'll pardon the expression, on select passages from some of the sexier stuff, like the positions that need a few people, a basket, and an elephant to carry them off. Something to impress the little woman at home, if there is one. Has to be. A guy like that ... a lone wolf, and on his own? No way. But hang on. I don't see a ring. Of course, that doesn't mean squat. Hey, don't go anywhere, buddy. He's up, heading for the windows and ... adjusting the blinds. He's also kind of dusting them off with his fingertips. Now there's a first -- a cross between Felix Unger and the Wife of Indra* thrown in for good measure. (He looks like he could handle the gymnastics that go along with the "highest congress" of the position.)

"What's your problem, Chief?"

Hell. How did he sneak up on me like that? Now I know what a mouse feels like when a big, black cat corners him.

Mr. Clean's eyes are blinking a mile a minute, and watering to beat the band.

"Jesus. You surprised - what?"

"I asked you what's your problem."

Except that I'm sort of scared spit-less -- this feels way too much like the prelude to every time a schoolyard bully beat the snot out of me -- seeing Mr. Gorgeous up close and personal is amazingly exciting. He's like a frigging action figure come to life. And not that I couldn't whip up 2,000 descriptive words about his face, but it's the eyes ... I'd have to spend a wicked amount of time trying to capture the shade of blue they are. What they're not is cornflower, lapis, azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, navy, royal, sapphire, teal, turquoise, ultramarine, and a handful of other choices from a Thesaurus. What they are is something between bottomless and flinty. That might be a good start. But only that. I bet they change with mood and background and weather and ... emotion. Oh, yeah, I bet they look unbelievable when he's hot and horny and ready to ...

"So?"

"Sorry, man. I don't know what you mean. I was just -"

"You were staring at me. I practically have a scorch mark on my forehead. I look like someone you know?"

"No, it's just -"

"Just what?"

"The books -- the ones you have over there ..."

"The books? What about them?"

"They're about Richard Burton ..."

"Yeah?"

" ... the explorer, not the actor ..."

"Uh-huh."

"It's ... well, what are the odds that two people -- who look pretty damned different, you have to admit -- would want to read the same books about the same guy on the same day in the same library? Funny, huh?"

"Hysterical."

"See, he's an 'old friend' from way back."

"You're losing me here, Chief."

Noon. High noon. The sheriff throws a gauntlet down to the mysterious stranger who rode in from the North. It's The Gunfight at Cascade Library. Jeez, throw that title away -- it stinks on ice.

"'Cliff Notes' version? Burton was a 19th century English explorer, linguist, author, and soldier. He traveled to Cairo, Suez, Mecca, Medina, and the forbidden city of Harar. Pretty ballsy of him, considering the fact that Europeans were executed if they got caught in Arab holy cities. He and three other Brits tried to find the source of the Nile, and eventually did make it to Lake Tanganyika. It was later dubbed Lake Victoria, in honor of the Queen. Burton wrote quite a few books and translated the 16 volumes of THE TALES OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS and, of course, the KAMA SUTRA. Apparently he never did anything twice, and he never met a sexual practice he didn't like -- or try. Oh, and ..."

"Stop right there, Chief."

"T.M.I.?"

"Way too much. And you did that without taking a breath. You some kind of teacher -- or just someone interested in sex?"

"Hey, you asked me a question. And, no, I'm not a teacher. I'm actually a free-lance writer. Facts are my life, man."

"And the sex part?"

"My interest in sex is healthy. Ask anybody you know ... no, don't do that. Anyway, sorry if I bothered you. So are you finished with the books?"

"No, but you can have them ... what's that smell? Is it ... I'm feeling kind of ... "

Mr. God pulls the chair out across from me, and throws that magnificent carcass of his down on it. There's a decidedly shaky air about the whole movement. What's more, he's getting progressively greener around the gills. In the proverbial blink of an eye, I know this guy is going to hurl.

"Hey, man, come with me. NOW." I grab his forearm -- I can just about get my hand around the ropes of muscles -- and pull him out of the chair toward the bathroom. Luckily, it's only about 20 paces from where we're sitting.

Pressing my fingers into the small of his back, I push Captain America toward the Unisex Restroom and close the door so he can blow chunks in private. I hear the sound of some major-league retching going on. He just might thank me for a breath mint when he reappears. Poking around my pockets, I find the ones my friend, Margaret Allen, a T.A. in Rainier's Biology Department, shoved across the table after lunch today. "Blair, honey, do the world a favor. The next time you inhale a double order of Castilian garlic soup, please have these with you. I'm begging you."

The big man comes out, now looking like the putty end of the spectrum. There's a chair nearby. I make him sit down, while I backtrack into the bathroom, wet a paper towel, come out and hand it to him.

"Here, man. You should wipe your --"

All of a sudden, my new friend's body starts to pitch -- no, catapult forward. I frantically grab his shoulders trying to stop him from falling and hitting the ground. As he sinks back into the chair, I can tell he's not unconscious, but those eyes look ... vacant. Like the light's on, but nobody's home.

See what you get, Sandburg, trying to be a good guy. A fucking 200 lb. epileptic, probably, who's going to end up cracking open that noggin of his and suing you for your car and the miserable 12 bucks you have stashed in the bank.

Of course, if he sees the way your hands are all over his body, being sued is the least of your worries.

Okay. So, I'm as turned on by a man's muscular back as I am by a woman's long legs. I've always been pretty broad-minded in my approach to dating. And you know what they say about being bisexual -- you have twice as many chances for some action on Friday night. Truth is, connecting with the ladies during sex is sheer honey. But men? Well, men give me a taste of brine -- a good, old-fashioned, rough-and-tumble rut that's like nothing else in the world. All of a sudden, Mr. Blue Eyes is back, holding onto my arm like a life preserver. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have his fingerprints on it tomorrow.

"Who are you?" His voice is shaky, but he doesn't let go. "Why are you helping me?"

"Blair. Blair Sandburg. Hey, ease up, man. I'm going to need that arm later."

"I don't know what happened. I was ... what the hell? Garlic? Is that YOU?"

"You could smell it? From over there?"

"People two buildings away could pick up the stench."

"Okay, okay." This guy is nuts. I gulp down a bunch of Altoids I was going to hand him.

"That better?"

"Yeah. At least you're not as bad as Peppy LePew over there." Great minds think alike.

"You want one of these?"

"No. The taste'll just make me sicker."

"Can I call someone to come pick you up?"

"No. I have my truck outside. I'll be all right in a couple of ..."

"I don't know, man. You look like death warmed over."

"Thanks very much."

"I just mean that maybe you should let me get you a cab or something ..."

"No. I said I'd be ..."

"'All right.' Yeah. I heard you. Listen, why don't you let me drive you back to your place?"

"You don't have to ..."

"I know I don't have to. I want to. Random acts of kindness, man."

"What?"

"You know the drill. I do a favor for you. You do one for someone else, and so on, and so on."

As he dabs at the corners of his mouth, trying to brush away the remnants of his last meal, my charge arches one eyebrow, as if to say, 'What a girly thing.' What he does say throws me a little.

"Sounds pretty damned '60s."

"Yeah. That's me. Peace, love ..."

"Drugs and rock 'n roll?"

"I was going to say, 'All that happy horseshit.' Anyway, you're safe with me, man. I won't hurt you." Mountain-of-muscles smiles, like the thought of all 5'8," 160-lb.- of me 'trying something' is the funniest thing he's heard in quite a while.

"If you're sure ..." I bet this guy HATES admitting feeling weak. Or worse, out of control. That makes some people totally schizo. Me? I take everything in stride because I'm pretty much never in the driver's seat of life. (I may be the 'captain of my fate and the master of my soul' but I bet the Skipper thought just that, right before the S.S. Minnow was shipwrecked and he ended up rooming with Gilligan.)

"It's no problem. I did as much research as I was going to, anyway."

"Research for your writing? Or are you student, too?"

"Wow. I am like so much older than I look."

"Kid, I hate to break it to you, but I've got pants older than you."

"Then your wardrobe's the next thing I'll help you with ... Mr. ... Mr. ..."

"Ellison. Jim Ellison. And that's my truck over there."

"A '69 Ford. It's a God-damned classic, man. I am like so impressed."

Bingo. A man and his truck. I've just struck one of the Colossus of Cascade's weaknesses. (I'll have to file that away for future reference.)

The smile that sweeps over Jim Ellison makes me lose track of what I'm saying. It's hard to be glib when you're face-to-face with someone so fucking gorgeous. He's looking at me strangely. Could it be the drool running from the corner of my mouth?

"Are you sure you can handle -"

"Trust me, man. I'll be careful with your 'baby."

"Why do I think, coming from you, 'trust me' are two of the most dangerous words in the English language?"

"Relax, 'Joe Friday.' I've driven just about everything, and that includes a big rig cross-country for one of my uncles."

"A trucker, too? You're just full of --"

"-Is 'surprises' the word you're groping for?"

He laughs a little, while giving me precise directions, which I follow to the letter. Along the way, I pop a few additional breath mints. Better safe than sorry. I hear Ellison mutter, "Thanks." His eyes are closed. How'd he know?

Twenty-five minutes later, we arrive at our destination. The neighborhood's a quiet one near the bay. Jim Ellison points to a spot on the street between the third set of diagonal stripes. It's the cleanest on-street area I think I've ever seen anywhere. Looks like someone actually scrubbed it.

"That's mine. Unofficially. I inherited it when I moved in."

"How long you been here?"

"Five years."

"Rent or own?"

"You sure ask a lot of questions."

"Yeah. I know. It's --"

"-- your curse?"

"-one of my most endearing qualities. That, and being able to draw an inside strait out of my ass."

Ellison watches me out of the corner of his incredibly blue eye, to make sure I've turned everything off.

"Okay, 'dad'?"

There's that laugh again. I can't imagine anybody arguing with this guy. Plus which, what's six feet of macadam among friends, compared with having your own personal police presence living in the building ... your own protector ... that's the ticket ... somebody looking out for you ... watching over you ... it has a nice ring to it. (I'll have to use it sometime.)

We get out of the Ford and hoof it into the lobby of the four-story Prospect Arms. Ellison leans on the elevator button; after a minute, it creaks its way down from the nether regions of the upper floors. The door opens even more slowly, and the two of us step into the closet-like conveyance. We stand side by side -- close. Closer than most men are comfortable with. But not Mr. Big. He doesn't seem to mind my proximity. He pushes "3" before I can ask what floor we're heading to.

When the doors slide open, Ellison nods toward the right.

"It's 307." Jim begins fishing around in his pockets for the keys he's forgotten I still have. I don't stop him. Anything that tightens those glorious jeans and gives me an even better look at the package, both front and back, is "jake" in my playbook.

"Sorry, man. Here they are." I drop the ring into the surprisingly graceful, outstretched hand.

"Thanks ... "

"'Blair.'"

"Yeah, I remember. Come on in, Blair."

The apartment "looks" like Jim Ellison. (Even though I've just met the guy, it feels like we're ... connected. Like we've known each other forever. Of course, my dick has always been a hopeless romantic where all sort-of-dark, and undeniably handsome strangers with big shoulders and little hips are concerned.) The place is very livable, if somewhat Spartan for my tastes. And definitely masculine. Everything's in muted colors. Maybe the "ex" took everything bright with her. There are expensive-looking blinds, to control the amount of light flooding in from the water. The walls and ceilings seem to be covered with acoustical tiles, to cut down on noise. There are a decent number of books and CDs. Great-looking area rug. A few pieces of artwork scattered throughout the living room and good photographic prints on the wall. The steps in the middle of the room must go up to his bedroom loft.

And the apartment's seriously neat -- I don't see a newspaper, piece of mail, or a dish out of place anywhere.

The whole gestalt is one of order. Guess it's not too surprising. If you're a cop and have to deal with chaos and violence every day of your life, order's what you want and need at home.

But what I don't see is a plant, an animal or any evidence of a roommate. Here I go on a fishing expedition. "You married, man?"

"More questions?"

"How will I ever learn, if I don't ask?"

"Divorced."

In the old 50 percentile of all U.S. adults. Excellent. So, Jim Ellison might be a free agent. I have to push the eligibility thing to the back burner because he's still not looking good.

"How you feeling, man? Maybe you should sit down before you kiss the linoleum, uh, sorry, hardwood floors."

"I told you--"

"You should have something to drink. What do you say?"

Before my stoic friend can argue that he's okay, I push him toward the comfortable-looking sofa with the afghan draped across the back. Once he's settled, I make myself at home by taking my jacket off, "hanging" it on one of the dining room chairs and heading for the kitchen.

Rifling through the roomy fridge, I call out the choices du jour. I also bend from the waist into the Amana so Ellison can get a look at one of my best assets.

"Water, water, beer, water, water ... O.J. Fructose, carbs -- that's what the doctor ordered. Mind if I grab one, too?" Closing the appliance, I twist off both caps and toss them into the trash can, which, like everything else, looks so spotless you could operate in it, for God's sake.

"He shoots! He scores! The crowd goes wild!"

"You a Jags wannabe?"

"Hey, man, except for the height thing, I've pretty much got all the moves."

"I'll just bet you do, Sandburg." I feel Jim Ellison's smile down to my toes, and other outlying regions. I'm sporting enough wood to build an A-frame. Relying on a little subterfuge, I un-tuck my shirt and let it hide what's going on. The big guy's nostrils twitch a little, but I think I'm in the clear as I hand him one of the bottles, then clink mine against it.

"Bottoms up, man." Don't go there, Sandburg.

"Prosit." You're not Russian, you're well-travelled.

"L'chaim." I'm Jewish and circumcised.

We both take a hit of juice.

"Mind if I take a load off?" Yes, Jim, my cock is so stiff and large, I'm going to need a forklift to get it out of my jockey shorts.

"Sure." Ellison gestures in the direction of a big upholstered chair, to the right of the couch. I pretty much throw myself into its soft yellow recesses, taking care that Mr. Happy doesn't get folded, spindled or mutilated in the process. The fabric's really good quality, probably treated with enough Scotchgard to protect it against big dogs, small children, and the errant Good Samaritan.

We drink in silence. My host watches me intently as he takes small sips. I'm just about finished draining my juice bottle when Jim darts forward quickly, and slides a drink coaster my way.

"Uh, thanks."

Oh, yeah, Felix Unger sure is alive and well and masquerading as a big, beautiful lawman in Cascade, WA. I figure I'd better use it because I'm betting this neat freak is probably armed and why court disaster?

"Listen, I appreciate your help, Sandburg, but don't let me keep you -"

"Uh, my car ..."

"Damn ..."

The little hamster is awake and back on the wheel. Ellison's just realized that I have no way of getting back to the library to retrieve it. I can practically read his mind. Out of the goodness of my heart, I've dropped a complete stranger way the hell on the other side of town, and now it's going to be an expensive cab ride -- or cheap, LONG walk -- back to the U.

"Don't worry, Jim. I've been taking care of myself since I was 16. Is there a bus that runs out that way? I'm sure it won't take more than an hour or so."

Before we figure out the logistics of getting Naomi Sandburg's favorite son back to his point of origin, let's see if I can guilt-trip this dude into some chow.

"Hey, do you have a sub shop or a deli around here where I could pick up something to eat before I head out?"

I swear I should be shot. I bat my "innocent" eyes like crazy, and get that tongue/boo-boo lip action going. Chewing on inside a little with a soupcon of anxiety tops off the performance. (A colleague once told me that the eye-lip thing is a lethal combination -- and virtually irresistible. After I'd bedded her, the same woman suggested I try using my powers for good instead of evil. I'm still working on that part.)

I start to put my jacket on, and make vague moves toward the door. Jim's got a conflicted look on his face like he just found a messy, lost puppy on his doorstep, yapping away for attention and something to eat, and he has to do something.

"Hang on, Sandburg ... you hungry?"

"I could eat."

"I don't have much food in the house --" He's right. His refrigerator did look a little sparse.

"Got anything in the freezer?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, you know, Hungry Man Dinners, a fattened calf?"

Ellison smiles again. It's becoming a habit. It's also like the crack of dawn on the rim of the Grand Canyon. I'm just blown away. Talk about criminal. Jesus Christ. This guy is so good-looking, it's gotta be against the law.

"You saying you're a 'prodigal?'"

"You don't know the half of it."

"You a chef, too?"

"I have a way with ground beef. I worked at Wonderburger last year when I was writing an article on fast food."

"I think the only thing I have are some ice cubes and a pound or so of bait."

"Well, that's not going to help us much, unless you want a mackerel Slurpee."

Now Ellison is laughing. Not at me. With me. I feel absurdly happy. This has to be what a tabby feels like sitting on a sunny window sill, purring away to beat the band. Or a Jack Russell terrier licking his balls on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

"You like pizza, Sandburg?"

"Do I! It's one of the four basic food groups. How about getting it with anchovies and peppers?"

As Jim grabs for the cellular that's sitting on the coffee table, he snorts at my suggestion. Even that's attractive.

"I'll get two pizzas."

"Anchovies and peppers not favorites of yours?"

"Chief, it would take me a week and a case of Mylanta to tell you how wrong that combo is."

He's called me 'Chief' three times. It's only been a couple of hours, and already I've got a nickname.

I like it.

Jim Ellison speed-dials either "4" or "5." Whoever answers seems to know him. (He must get pizza a lot.) Besides the pies, Jim orders antipasto, soup, and tiramisu. It's my all-time favorite dessert. That settles it. This character's a keeper. I am in fucking love. And, if it works out, I'm going to love fucking him.

Ellison snaps the phone shut. He's looking better than he did, but still not 100%.

"Listen, man, maybe you want to catch of couple of zzz's while we're waiting for the food. I promise I won't touch your stuff." I cross my heart for emphasis.

"Wrong side there, buddy."

"Hey, it's the thought that counts. Go ahead. Kick your shoes off and lie down."

"It won't work. I haven't been able to sleep for more than a half-hour at a time for the last month." Still, Jim's eyelids droop a fraction of an inch.

"That sucks, man. So you won't sleep. You'll just close your eyes for 20 minutes or so. "

"You mean take a nap?" My friend sounds incredulous at the notion, but does what I've suggested. "I haven't ... 'napped' since ... I don't think I ever napped."

"Real men don't 'nap'?

"None of the ones I know do."

I think about Detective America here surrounded by other superheroes, tucked away under 'blankies' and I have to agree.

"Okay, then, relax. I'll put some music on. How about that?"

"No. Music gives me a headache -- like about a million other things. But ..." Jim hesitates, and I honestly have no idea what he's going to say next. " ... you could ... you know, talk ... your voice is pretty easy on the ears."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then. So, once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away ..."

"Sandburg ..." He growls, but closes his eyes.

"... there was a kid whose mother wanted to show him the world ..."

I start rolling out the life and times of one B.J. Sandburg. As I do, the lines around Ellison's mouth disappear. At rest, his face looks less fierce, and as beautiful as anything I'm ever likely to get close to.

At 5:30, the oral history I'm spinning to a sleeping audience of one is interrupted by a knock at the door.

It's the food. But I have zero cash to pay the earnest-looking kid standing in front of me. He looks vaguely familiar. "Hi, there. Man, does that smell great! Hang on a second. I have to round up some cash ..."

"Don't worry. Detective Ellison's money is no good with my boss."

"That's handy."

So, Ellison's one of these cops you hear about, getting 'comped' because of who -- and what -- he is. I don't know why, but the thought of that really weirds me out.

"Well, make sure you give yourself a good tip, kid."

"Will do. And say 'hi' to Uncle Jim for me."

The delivery boy's gone before the 'Uncle Jim' thing registers. I must be a lot hungrier than I thought.

"I've known the Longitanos since the day Joey was born. They're cousins."

Somehow or other, Ellison's gotten right up behind me. I didn't even hear him get off the couch. Talk about 'little cat feet.' The fog's got nothing on this guy. I almost drop the pies and everything else.

"Careful there, Sandburg, I don't feel like eating off the floor."

"Well, this place is so clean, you could. Anyway, you don't look particularly Italian."

"I'm not. Faith -- Joey's mom -- is one of the Seattle Ellisons."

"How many branches of the Ellison family are there?"

"A handful."

"You have any kids?"

"No. Just a father and a brother." He takes the stuff out of my hand, and walks toward the dining room table. "Grab a seat. I'll get the dishes."

"You sit. I'll get them." I do my Martha Stewart impression, sans ankle monitor, opening cabinets, retrieving glasses, dishes, napkins, and one or two herbs and spices. It looks like the seals have never been broken on any of the bottles. So besides having problems with his eyes, ears, and nose, the old taste buds must be aggravating him, too. Sight, hearing, taste, smell ...

As I put the plates down, the back of my hand brushes against my host's muscled forearm. I can't think straight. I've never been zapped by lighting, but I bet this is how it feels. Everything above the waist is tingling. South of the border, parts of me are mamboing in my chinos.

"Whoa. Sorry, man." What can I say that's witty enough to cover up the 'Burg,' what an old girl friend used to call my massive boner. True to form, the writer's block I'm suffering from is extending itself into my conversation.

Ellison's not listening. Instead, he's looking at his skin. Even I notice the hairs on the back of his arm standing straight up.

"You know, Sandburg, I thought you were just wired for sound, but it looks like you're 'supercharged,' too." He grabs the silverware out of my hand. "Sit."

Okay. I can do that. Our knees knock, and touch for a half-second too long. Shit. It's going from bad to worse. I am at full attention. I won't be able to get up for a freaking hour. I press my fingertips onto the edge of the table, trying to regain whatever control I can over myself.

Jim tilts his head to one side, and his nostrils quiver a little, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he plays gracious host and starts serving up enough soup and salad to feed a small Third-World country. For a while, there's no conversation, just the sounds of two hungry men eating. Correction. The human Hoover -- me -- is slamming through the damned fine food. Ellison makes a half-hearted attempt to choke down a couple of mouthfuls of minestrone and half a saltine. The face he makes speaks volumes. What it says is, "This tastes like something that came out of the business end of a four-legged animal."

Then we start on the pies. I notice Jim's is as far away from mine as is physically possible and still be on the same table. I guess he wasn't kidding about not liking anchovies and peppers.

"Have any oregano, big guy?"

"Second shelf."

There it is, in between "Nutmeg" and "Paprika." It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that everything's in alphabetical order. Hey, it gets better. Multiples are organized by size. "Cracked Pepper" is in front of "Ground Pepper," both of which lead the way for Peppercorns - "Black," "Pink," "Red," then finally "White."

At the very least, this guy's the most anal-retentive person I've ever met.

"Find what you're looking for, Sandburg?"

You don't know the half of it, buddy. "Yeah."

We kind of slide into talking. Well, I talk about my writing and what a bear it is. I'm not sure how it happens, but I find myself laying myself open, sharing dreams and hopes and aspirations with an almost perfect stranger. (He's a stranger -- and damned near perfect in my book.)

Ellison tells me he's a detective, and a good one, if you read between the lines of the skimpy bio. He stops as I'm chomping into my fourth slice.

"I guess it's okay."

"What? The pie? Aces, man."

"Good."

"Yeah, good." Brilliant dialogue. Possifuckingtively scintillating. Shades of the Algonquin Roundtable. "So why were you reading the Burton books?"

Jim swipes at his mouth with a napkin, thinks for a minute, as though trying to formulate an answer that someone as naturally ... inquisitive as myself would accept.

"Somebody told me this Burton guy ..."

" ... what?"

"... discovered something that ... could help me with all the shit that's been happening to me ... with my ... " His sentences are left dangling, and dying on now-frowning lips.

"Help you with what, Jim?"

Ellison doesn't answer. Instead, he does a 180, throwing the conversational ball back in my court.

"What about you? Why are you so interested in him?"

"Long story."

I put my pizza crust down, and brush my hands together, a little nervously. Spilling the beans on any of my deep, dark secrets tends to throw me into overdrive. "See, when I was a kid, there was this legend ... Burton wrote a monograph about it."

"About what?"

Now it's my turn. I don't want to share something as precious as my dreams of a Sentinel with anybody. Even a great-looking anybody who's buying dinner.

"Sandburg ..."

"... it was just something that a lonely kid in a small library in Back of God's Ass, U.S.A. loved to dream about. End of story."

"So, today reminded you ..."

"Of the library, the smell of books, the whole enchilada. That's all." Something in me makes me blurt out, "Except for you."

Ellison's eyes change color. They match the "blue" inside a flame -- the hottest part of the fire. "For me, huh?"

I know I'm blushing furiously. "Slide the oregano back over here, will you?"

Finally, dinner's over. I've practically inhaled everything in sight, including the decorative garnee that came with the antipasto. The pizza's a distant memory. Jim's is pretty much intact.

"This was really a nice treat, Jim. You didn't have to, man. Thanks. Let me clean up." Like any good guest who hasn't offered Jack Shit toward paying, I police the area, then plop myself down at the table again, and sip what's left of my third -- or is it the fourth? -- glass of wine. The bottle of Chianti's now history, thanks to my taste for imported anything.

"You want me to make some coffee?"

"Sure. Just turn it on. And get the tiramisu while you're out there, along with a couple of plates, chief."

Hmm. I guess I don't have to leave just yet. I zap the java, and bring those slices of heaven to the table. We both take a forkful of our respective pieces. Longitano's version is an even better-tasting delicacy than I remember. But Ellison barely nibbles at his.

I'm sipping the last of the vino when the evening gets turned on its side.

"So, Sandburg ... you usually cruise for dates while you're putting the finishing touches on an article of yours?"

I do a mini-spit-take, and almost spray my host. "Geez. Warn a guy, why don't you." I can't be offended, because he's right. I've been known to trawl just about any place for a little diversion, except maybe for Starbucks. That'd be just too damned depressing. But, for some reason, I don't want this guy to think I'd roll over for just any Tom, Dick or Harry. Well, not just for any dick.

"You're like, the first. Honest."

"The first, huh?"

Okay. So maybe that's a little too bullshit-ish, even for my ears.

Ellison's icy blue eyes have turned into lasers. I can almost feel my skin being peeled away, layer by layer. I hope when he finds the chewy, soft center he'll stop.

"You know, kid, I have an uncanny ability to detect crap at 20 paces ..." Jim gets up, walks behind me and lays his hands on my shoulders, guiding me out of the chair. I feel my whole body trembling, just like it did once during an earthquake, as though I have no control over it. I start to turn around, but he stops me. "Stand there. Clever guy like you ... I think I know what you were looking for."

I hear a clinking sound, and feel cold metal touch my left wrist. Son of a bitch. He's just snapped a handcuff on me. A fucking cop handcuff. It catches on the bracelet a friend wove a million years ago.

"What the hell --"

"Calm down, Shakespeare. I won't bite. Unless you ask nicely."

Okay, so maybe Ellison isn't as straight a shooter as he looks. I may be having a second helping of dessert tonight ...

"Tell me about this first."

"It's a bracelet."

The rope-like jewelry's woven out of embroidery thread with a little of my friend Frank's strawberry blonde hair and a handful of my own brunette mane thrown in for good measure. It took hours and a gallon of really bad jug wine to get us properly motivated. This kind of bracelet isn't supposed to be removed ever. If you intentionally take it off, it signifies the end of the friendship. I've worn it a bezillion years because I can't afford to lose any friends. I don't have that many to begin with.

"I know that. What kind of bracelet?"

"Friendship, I guess."

"What? You going steady, Sandburg?"

"Nothing like that."

Jim's lifted my arm up so that he can take a closer look at it. "It's really a beautiful piece of work," Ellison observes, much to my surprise. "I saw a pattern something like this in Peru."

"Peru? You were in Peru?"

"Yeah. Among other places."

"What were you doing there?"

"That's where Uncle Sam sent me."

"So, you were in the ..."

"Army. I don't want to talk about it." There's a look on Ellison's face that's downright scary. What have I gotten myself into?

"Hey, man, backing off here. I didn't mean --"

Even as he watches me doing the apology dog-and-pony show, Ellison's almost sniffing the bracelet and, I guess, my skin. His voice softens a little. "Sorry. I don't talk about Peru to anybody. Anyway, the Chopec only did this if they were ..."

Chopec. Mountain people, if I remember correctly. So, he does want to talk about Peru.

"Dating?"

"They don't date, Sandburg. Some fucked. Some married. Not too much in between."

"I'm not married."

"You fucking this friend?"

"I told you, 'no.'"

"'No, he's not that kind of friend, or 'no,' you're not fucking him? Is that why you're 'offering'?"

I'm getting confused. It's probably all the pheromones swirling around the two of us, making me dizzy, disoriented, and pre-verbal.

"Hey, I'm not the one sniffing some stranger's arm." I'm burning where his fingers are fluting my upper thigh. "Not to mention, feeling him up." I lower my eyes to my wrist. There's a cuff, a bracelet, and a handsome face with a hungry look on it, all at roughly the same juncture.

"I can't help it. It's just that you smell so good," His tongue laps at my pulse point, making my blood race and my I.Q. points drop like a rock. "And you taste so -- "

"Good?" The husky voice making with the modifier is mine.

"Different. Different from anyone else in the whole world." The hand moves further up my thigh, in striking distance of the Sandburg family jewels. "From the minute I met you, you made things --"

"What?"

"Quiet ... calm."

Wow. I've been called a bunch of stuff in my 30-odd years (and some have been damned odd, believe me), but 'quiet' ... 'calm'? This guy should get frequent flyer miles on the space ship he's going to beam back to. Maybe Ellison is an alien. Super hearing. Super sight. Super ...

Shit. He's got four out of five hyperactive senses. What are the God-damned odds that this stranger could be a ... sentinel? The man of my dreams, here in the considerable flesh. I wonder if ... let's go for five out of five. How sensitive is Ellison in the touchy-feely department? I take my nail and run it over the nipple closest to me, the one threatening to erupt through the soft tee-shirt.

"Jesus Christ!" The shattering, primal scream Jim lets out is my answer. That, and the fact that he shoots a pretty damned impressive load of joy juice in his sweatpants.

Whatever I'm about to say -- "I am, like, so flattered ...", " ... Glad you liked it, man. Come again ...," or "... Care to return the favor?" -- is swallowed up as Jim's mouth, that delicious, inviting maw, swoops down over mine, sealing us together. He examines my throat and teeth with what I know now is a Sentinel tongue. I'm going to make a mental note to cancel the appointment with my dental hygienist for next month.

"God, the taste of you ..." Ellison's words are cascading over me, raising my core temperature to a thousand, melting me from the inside out.

"Jim, Jim, Jim ... " Suddenly, I'm kissing him back with everything I can muster, wishing he'd finish the cuff job, carry me up to the bedroom loft, and take me six ways from Sunday. As I feel him snapping the other cuff on me, ripping my pants open, and swallowing me whole, I think I can make the floor 'do.' Ellison's sucking my soul -- and every ounce of bodily fluid -- out through my cock. I can't even raise up enough moisture to make a decent trail of spit to dribble down my chin.

A little while later, pretty much naked, uncuffed, and boneless from an orgasm that had to be felt on the other side of town, I look at the mountain of a man lying next to me on his highly-buffed hardwood floor. Whoever's running the cosmos has dropped the Holy Grail right here in my arms, in Cascade fucking Washington. You know what that means?

Best seller. BEST SELLER. What I've always wanted to write. I'll be rich. Scratch that. FRIGGING RICH. Rich beyond my dreams of avarice. I'll be lounging there with the wife and kids and Pal, the Labrador Retriever. At the Malibu beachfront, the one next to Tarantino. He'll want to direct the movie. Over Margaritas, we'll pitch casting ideas around on who'll play Jim. And who'll play me. Jake Gyllenhaal? Orlando Bloom? Would Brad Pitt dye his hair for a good-enough part?

But wait a minute ... this might not be such a great thing for a cop. The heightened senses ... at the very least, it'd send his profile sky-high. Jim Ellison might look great on the cover of NEWS Magazine. But THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER? Christ, what a freak show. No, more like a three-ring circus with a freak show attached.

But, then again, maybe not. Who knows? Actually, no one knows about Sentinel Jim Ellison but me. Maybe I just need to take my time. And if, in the meanwhile, this other thing works out -- and the way we're now dry-humping one another here on the steps makes me think "yes" -- maybe Jim'll let me crash here. Just one week. There's nothing terribly urgent going on in San Francisco. And there's sure as shit nobody waiting there for me. This neighborhood is a nice one, and there's an extra parking space out front of 852 Prospect that would suit the Volvo to a "T." I could even use the spare room under the stairs for an office, or a bedroom if Ellison needs "space."

I could move in today -- I'm smallish, and all my important stuff is either attached to me or in my back pack -- and start working on the story while I'm getting to know Ellison better. Hell, knowing more about how the big cop does what he does could only make "THE SENTINEL" by Blair Sandburg better. Right? Where the hell's a piece of paper? Let's see ...

Act 1, Scene 1:

Opening logo over Cascade at night, cut to day time in Washington DC, then into a darkened room. Two Army officers looking at an image on an overhead ...

 

The end.

 

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