plan. With Mikki in school, instead of me going back to the bank, I would attempt to make a living—or something close to it—from writing. Jenn was still working hard at the same firm, but now making more money since being taken on as a partner. With Mikki needing less of my attention, the timing couldn’t have been better.
Six years later, lightning struck. Well, no, I take that back: it wasn’t lightning, it just felt like it. Lightning hits you out of the blue, no matter where you are or what you’re doing. In my case, I wasn’t exactly standing out in a rainstorm with a metal-tipped umbrella, hoping to be zapped—but I wasn’t inside hiding, either. I wrote a second book.
In the Middle was a (mostly) fictionalized account of an everyday guy who takes a year-long leave of absence from regular life to travel the world. An early reviewer described the book as “gut-wrenching, side-splitting, surprisingly heartfelt, a must-read for anyone wading through the mess of midlife.” When the New York Times called it “the Eat Pray Love for middle-aged men and the women trying to love them,” sales exploded.
In the Middle hit every major top ten list and was a New York Times bestseller for over forty weeks. Just like that, I was famous. My life had changed. Instead of spending my days making lunches for Mikki and late dinners for Jenn, I was flying cross country doing radio, TV, and internet chat show interviews. Whenever fatigue or homesickness caused me to balk at the crazy schedule, my no-nonsense agent with a knack for hyperbole would remind me to “make hay while the sun shines, because the wind is picking up and the clouds are coming.”
The more promotion I did, the more requests that followed. Apparently I photographed well, had a semblance of charm, was likeable enough, and managed eloquence and good humor under pressure. I’d done publicity for my first book, but it had never amounted to much beyond the local market. In due course the public interest had died off, and the book slipped and then disappeared off lists and bookstore shelves, quickly followed by the media attention. Event opportunities dried up like popsicles in the desert.
This was different. The frenzy began to feed off itself in a way that was inexplicable to me and my permanently-grinning agent. Before I knew it, Hollywood took notice and a film version of the book was green lit, financed, and hit screens to respectable box office returns. My career became something I scarcely recognized. But everyone recognized me. Even in Marrakech.
Chapter 7
When I realized that the sound—raw, guttural, ugly—was coming from me, I wasn’t surprised. I’d heard it before. And worse. This asshole, my captor, whom I’d nicknamed Hun (as in Attila), wasn’t going to get the worst out of me. He wasn’t going to break me. I was broken long ago.
My hands were tied behind me to the chair. They didn’t do this to keep me from fighting back or escaping, but to stop me from falling over until the beating was done. It was easier for Hun to get in his licks while I was upright.
I’d never been physically beaten before. The sensation was what I imagined being in a car crash would be like. With each landing of Hun’s fist, adrenaline made my entire body feel as if it was being sent flying in the opposite direction of the impact. Which was odd because I was attached to that damn chair and going nowhere. But in my mind’s eye, I was floating away, with no control over limbs or other body parts. Then, as the power of the blow’s force dissipated, the propulsion would too and I’d come to a stop, hovering there, looking down at my body. For a brief second I’d be at peace, weightless, almost euphoric. Then the next hit would meet its mark and I’d slam back into the chair, absorb the pain, and fly off in another direction.
I was acutely, painfully, achingly aware of every inch of my body and every single strike against it. I could sense each
Six years later, lightning struck. Well, no, I take that back: it wasn’t lightning, it just felt like it. Lightning hits you out of the blue, no matter where you are or what you’re doing. In my case, I wasn’t exactly standing out in a rainstorm with a metal-tipped umbrella, hoping to be zapped—but I wasn’t inside hiding, either. I wrote a second book.
In the Middle was a (mostly) fictionalized account of an everyday guy who takes a year-long leave of absence from regular life to travel the world. An early reviewer described the book as “gut-wrenching, side-splitting, surprisingly heartfelt, a must-read for anyone wading through the mess of midlife.” When the New York Times called it “the Eat Pray Love for middle-aged men and the women trying to love them,” sales exploded.
In the Middle hit every major top ten list and was a New York Times bestseller for over forty weeks. Just like that, I was famous. My life had changed. Instead of spending my days making lunches for Mikki and late dinners for Jenn, I was flying cross country doing radio, TV, and internet chat show interviews. Whenever fatigue or homesickness caused me to balk at the crazy schedule, my no-nonsense agent with a knack for hyperbole would remind me to “make hay while the sun shines, because the wind is picking up and the clouds are coming.”
The more promotion I did, the more requests that followed. Apparently I photographed well, had a semblance of charm, was likeable enough, and managed eloquence and good humor under pressure. I’d done publicity for my first book, but it had never amounted to much beyond the local market. In due course the public interest had died off, and the book slipped and then disappeared off lists and bookstore shelves, quickly followed by the media attention. Event opportunities dried up like popsicles in the desert.
This was different. The frenzy began to feed off itself in a way that was inexplicable to me and my permanently-grinning agent. Before I knew it, Hollywood took notice and a film version of the book was green lit, financed, and hit screens to respectable box office returns. My career became something I scarcely recognized. But everyone recognized me. Even in Marrakech.
Chapter 7
When I realized that the sound—raw, guttural, ugly—was coming from me, I wasn’t surprised. I’d heard it before. And worse. This asshole, my captor, whom I’d nicknamed Hun (as in Attila), wasn’t going to get the worst out of me. He wasn’t going to break me. I was broken long ago.
My hands were tied behind me to the chair. They didn’t do this to keep me from fighting back or escaping, but to stop me from falling over until the beating was done. It was easier for Hun to get in his licks while I was upright.
I’d never been physically beaten before. The sensation was what I imagined being in a car crash would be like. With each landing of Hun’s fist, adrenaline made my entire body feel as if it was being sent flying in the opposite direction of the impact. Which was odd because I was attached to that damn chair and going nowhere. But in my mind’s eye, I was floating away, with no control over limbs or other body parts. Then, as the power of the blow’s force dissipated, the propulsion would too and I’d come to a stop, hovering there, looking down at my body. For a brief second I’d be at peace, weightless, almost euphoric. Then the next hit would meet its mark and I’d slam back into the chair, absorb the pain, and fly off in another direction.
I was acutely, painfully, achingly aware of every inch of my body and every single strike against it. I could sense each
Similar Books
Random Victim
Michael A. Black
The White Voyage
John Christopher
Grave Intentions
Lori Sjoberg
The Tainted City
Courtney Schafer
The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne
Natasha Blackthorne
The Passover Murder
Lee Harris
Yours for the Taking
Robin Kaye
Cooking for Picasso
Camille Aubray
Crash Deluxe
Marianne de Pierres
Falling for Owen
Jennifer Ryan