There’s a new teller at the branch where I bank, and he probably wonders why I remember his name and not anybody else’s. No, he probably thinks it’s because he’s cute.
Well, he is cute, but the reason I remember his name is that it’s Mitch. Not only do I have an internet friend named Mitch (Hi, Mitch!), that’s the name of the main character of the first novel I ever wrote.
Here’s a sample from that, a sample I’m calling:
Auntie, Where’s My Car?
excerpt from A DEAD GUY AT THE SUMMERHOUSE
by Marian Allen
It was right about then that I saw Matthew Walton watching us from a door in the right-hand wall.
Matthew Walton was on the Board of Trustees for the Refuge, among other things. I’d seen him a couple of times; he was probably in his fifties, meaty but not fat, and his flat-brown eyes were a little on the beady side. He’d done a shoulder-grasping, “Are you a good boy?” job on me a couple of times when I was little. I still felt it when it rained.
What was he doing here?
Aunt Missy saw me staring and said, “This is Matthew Walton, whom everyone knows. He married my late niece Charlotte. And this,” she announced, “is Mitch Franklin. I’ve hired him. I’ll pay him out of my own money, of course; you’ve left me enough for that.”
Mr. Walton’s whole face pinched into a frown. He came toward us. “Hired him for what?”
“Protection from your insane rages, for one thing! I live in deadly fear of your foul temper!”
“I wish.” He looked at me, still frowning. “Don’t I know you?”
“I’m the good boy from the Refuge, sir,” was all I could think of to say, but it clicked.
“Oh, yes. Mitch Franklin. James Michener Franklin; born, 1950. And you’re still –” He stopped himself before he could say still at the Refuge or still not adopted or still an orphan, or whatever foot he’d been about to put in his mouth. As it was, he seemed to think he’d gotten a couple of toes past his molars, because his cheeks reddened and he turned away to Aunt Missy.
“Is that where you’ve b –” He stopped again and sniffed. “Smoke! You’ve been smoking in my car! In my new car!” He whirled around, eyes on the floor. I knew what he was looking for. “You took the dogs with you!” He pointed an accusing finger at them. “You didn’t leave because they disappeared again! You took them! In my new car!” “Contain yourself. I covered your precious upholstery with a towel.” Then she smirked. “I did use the ashtray, though. Better send it to the shop.”
Buy A DEAD GUY AT THE SUMMERHOUSE
A WRITING PROMPT FROM ME TO YOU: Somebody takes a car without permission.