Gertrude Foster, Merlin Atkins, Ned Chancellor, Rose Lindenhurst, George Pendleton, Marie Divisadero, Claude Archer – and Hank Rydall.
“Okay, characters,” I said to the group, assembled at the 720 York Street studio that Jane had loaned me for the purpose. “Now’s the time to pick which one of you made the cut.”
“Hey, what is this?” Claude Archer, said, grunting and sighing out a stench of beer and cheap cigarettes. “No one tells me whether I made the cut. I tell them I made the cut.”
“I always knew I’d be canned in the end,” Gertrude said, a decrescendo in her voice that started on a high note and ended in the bass clef.
Merlin went next. “Wood, I’m going to get you for this – just mark my words,” he said, and he stood and left the room in two steps.
“God be with you,” George Pendleton added, “for no one may judge another except the Lord, Jim Wood. It is not your place, nor is it mine.”
Marie added her tear-stained regrets, Ned barked out an angry who cares, Rose offered her oh, he really means well anyway – but Hank Rydall remained silent, looking directly at me.
“You’ve been awfully quiet,” I said, returning his stare, blue eye for blue eye. “I suspect you know what I’m going to say.”
“How can it be otherwise?” Hank said. “I’m the one you’re keeping, right? You wouldn’t have turned an innocent Midwestern boy into a serial murderer in the middle of Bakersfield, California if you hadn’t intended the story to continue.”
“Damned right,” I added. “You’re the best character of the lot. The rest of you – goodbye!”
Except for Hank, they all filed out, one by one, in search of a writer. But knowing they were in San Francisco, they lifted up their chins. Wasn’t there a writer on every street corner of the City by the Bay? And such good writers, too!
Hank and I huddled for strategy on character development.
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