I know I’ve been promising this for a long time. So, here is a preview of the new novel I’ve been tinkering with.
DAMNED BEFORE BREAKFAST
PROLOGUE: A NIGHT OUT
“Three months of painting, reading and napping in the sun. No papers to grade, no freshman co-eds asking stupid questions, just rest, relaxation and maybe a few alcoholic beverages.” I shifted in the sunlight. The smell of musty books stung my nostrils. I couldn’t take another year as an un-tenured assistant professor. The immature musings of the bleach-blonde sorority whores was starting to affect my I.Q.
“Gee, that sounds wonderful Mage.” The voice on the other end of the telephone sighed.
“I am going to make the most of this summer vacation. I ditched out on work before they could accost and strong-arm me into teaching summer courses for pennies and magic jumping beans. We are going to do fun, relaxing things all summer… reading, swimming, spa treatments and maybe a new tattoo or three.” I closed my eyes and sighed at the thought of a real summer vacation.
“Well, Mage, as nice as that sounds, we don’t all have frou-frou education jobs that give us insanely long vacations.” The jealously was audible. “Some of us have to go back to work on Monday.”
I ignored her protests. “As if you aren’t sitting on at least two months of stock-piled vacation days…”
“But, we’re in the middle of type-setting the new catalogue. I can’t just leave in the midst of an important project.”
“Yes, I’m sure that writing copy for farm-equipment catalogues is at the top of your list of things to do. As if they couldn’t use the same descriptions they used in the last damn catalogue. Technology hasn’t exactly progressed since last summer…”
“I guess you’ve got me there Mage. Well played.” The chuckle in her voice was a sheer sign of my triumph over her work ethic.
“Escape from the monotony of your super exciting life. I know that being a copywriter for a major distributer of farm equipment is your dream job and everything, but you can’t tell me that the idea of alcoholic Arnold Palmer’s isn’t enticing.”
“God, you’re a bitch sometimes. Not all of us landed cushy jobs in small-town academia.”
“…and, whose fault is that Rave. I didn’t tell you to jump on the slave train and forego your higher education.” Score one more for me. “I suggest you inform your place of employment that you’d like to cash in those vacation days. Then, head over to my place because we are hitting the city tonight.”
“Yes, because Milwaukee is soooooooooo exciting.”
“It’s a start Rave; it’s a start. Molehills before mountains and all that junk. Get dressed up because we’re hitting Water Street hard.”
“Great and I’ll go ahead and empty out my bank account while we’re at it.”
“You are such a whiner. Fine, the night’s on me. You won’t regret it.”
CHAPTER ONE: HANGOVERS OR FANGOVERS?
Meritville, Wisconsin, while a thriving college town, doesn’t hold much entertainment or excitement for those of us over the age of 21. It’s a stereotypical small Wisconsin town–nine bars, two liquor stores, five banks and a cobble-stone road lined with tiny novelty shops. Soaps and Stuff, Laura’s High Fashion Boutique, The Kite Factory, Brotherhood Books and more…
Oh, and the university… but that doesn’t count as the college kids and the townies don’t mix well. The university is all-inclusive. There’s no reason for those spoiled kids to take a step outside of the campus anyway. The campus comes equipped with seven eateries, three convenience stores, a movie theater and a hair salon—and people wonder why they gain 20 lbs. in college—as if the 24hr pizza delivery itself isn’t enough to verify the rumor.
Rave and I really needed to break free from our boring cookie-cutter lives to let loose and have a little fun. Milwaukee is the closest actual entertainment. So, visiting it first was a logical idea. Though, when I told Rave she wouldn’t regret it–I didn’t actually mean it—I also didn’t anticipate what actually happened.
We both knew she’d wake up with a blinding headache followed by a hangover chaser. Hell, I figured we both would. While we were well past our college party days, they weren’t so far away that we had forgotten how to let loose and have a good time. We had been best friends since high school, stayed that way through college and into our respective careers—a long but fun 14 years. (Do the math; we’re both 28 years old.)
I knew we’d both wind up smelling like a barroom floor, with matted hair, smeared eye make-up and killer hangovers. It would probably be followed by a grease-laden Denny’s breakfast and then Bloody Mary’s ala hair of the dog–I was only half right.
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