EATAYLOR's Statement
In a world filled with choices, determining a place to call home venerates marked importance. This is quite understandable. The pursuit of the American dream, whether actually attainable or not per today's hostile economic climate, is home ownership, but not just any home, an ideal retreat best suited for individual preferences and locales. Whether this is a desire for white picket fences, or a home built with stone and brick on prized plots, there is barter, a contract, a commitment. Acquiring a home is one of the largest single purchases for Americans. As such, at what price are we willing to pay? What part do we play? How much are we willing to part? Sell your soul for a share. Purchase a piece for pie. Slumber with little sleep. On average, the typical American entangles in a forty-hour work week - that's if they're lucky enough to find full-time employment offering golden handcuffs to offset health care premiums, living costs, and rising inflation. But even for part-timers, work can be less than peachy. S/he may hustle in a hostile work environment . . . .
Synopsis
For two attorneys, Samuel-Saul and Sienna Cides, the subdued opulence of Monterey County and the exclusivity of The Other One Plus VII Mile Drive was their destined place of residency and safe haven. Distanced approximately twenty-seven miles south of King City and within the guarded confines of Fort Hunter Liggett, the Cides accept a peculiar invite, a housewarming staged ever so grand. Believed to be separated from the masses within the quaint community of Muddy Waters and informally inducted into Milers Club whereby the select, residing within a two-mile radius of The Other One Plus VII Mile Drive, are extended perks and meant to feel special. As members of a close-net community in the woods of paradise, the Cides soon realize that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. Inclined to pay the price for privilege, privacies are invaded, and individualisms are challenged. Having attained the American dream in a seemingly ideal sanctuary but unwilling to submit to a cadre of community elitists and prescribed practices, the Cides are inundated with problems never imagined, including but not limited to, candid introspections regarding how they view themselves and others in terms of gender roles, race, color, religion, class and sexual preferences. In dealing with these difficulties, the Cides discover they are not alone and are categorically classified. Sandwiched between thin slices of bread, forced to swallow what comes their way or live a class apart, Milers leave a legacy of spoils, some sour and others masked as sweet. Representing a creative compilation of America’s milestones, controversial ideologies, and of course, the author’s imagination, In Parts Per Million is a story of stories speckled with parodies of injustice, satirical passages and historical tidbits. A riveting psychological thriller webbed with suspense, conspiracies and subversions, this novel portrays a raw glimpse of human nature and conditions.
In Parts Per Million Chapter 1 Excerpt
No one believed the so-called drunk, lingering his time between Skid Row, a heavily populated homeless area of Los Angeles, the Ventana Wilderness and Old Fisherman’s Wharf, was married to an established cosmopolitan, dwelt in posh community relatively unheard of, and an alumnus of the illustrious Monterey Naval Post Graduate School. And with little wonder, it took a while for the poorly perceived, notorious for carousing young scantily clad women at the Wharf, to earn credibility with the locals and a seemingly longer time for someone to shut his mouth.
Shouting from a pier, the bum regularly drew a stoic crowd. His lines were thought to be empty and memorized. “Prisons are for criminals. The mentally ill are not to be imprisoned. I am neither a criminal nor mentally ill. But that wretched woman took me and my bank account to the cleaners,” the deadbeat often cited. “Then she tried to have me institutionalized and framed for felonies and petty crimes. Not in a millions years would I have dreamt being deposed to current conditions. Previously, I was fully functional, capable of earning a decent living and paying my fair share of taxes, but this woman degraded me to mere flesh and bones. The rags I wear are draped tired, as I have been. Unable to secure work in my career field, I’ve become disabled and forced into homelessness for what appears to be in perpetuity, thanks to my wife.”
Normally, any women of social stature would have sued the old decrepit drunk for defamation, but to do so would incite unwanted attention and give validity to the troubled talebearer. After all, the wounded warrior once wore bruised wrists, proof that the woman he often spoke of conspired with authorities to enforce an unnecessary: assault. However, this sort of poor publicity managed to cuff the woman’s litigious nature equally as tight. Further, the woman had little to monetarily gain from the destitute, her ex.
On 25 June, summer affairs were routine, but solemn. Having exhausted nearly all tangible resources, the sunny deposition of the presumed drunk grayed. The company of good men willing to offer vittles and strong drink in exchange for his sensational stories waned. Clearly, the bum was shaded by anticipation. “In all my years and knowing what was meant to be kept hidden, I’ve never lived somewhere so grand, so naturally lit,” reminisced the accused bum with a contrite heart. “But, it only takes one snake and the naivety of a woman to ruin it for the rest of us.”
“Say it isn’t so; say it isn’t so,” the suited man, dressed in fine linen, laggardly agreed. While lighting a scented cigarette pressed tight between his lips, the fastidious host was mindful of manners. “I regret any impressions of selfishness, would you care for a cig, my friend?”
The deadbeat, vagabond, vagrant, straggler, accused bum – the many names he was often called, responded simply, “No, thank you.”
“Another cranberry cognac?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m not really a drinker.” Less than half a day stood between the charged, his court sentencing (arraignment), and a probable long getaway to Salinas Valley State Prison, but acknowledging all that he was willing to defend, he stayed true. “When I landed my first house in Monterey, a place to call home, I was told to stand for the ovation. Stand for thyself. Awake from painted dreams. Pledge my allegiance to a neighborly cabal. Welcome to a world far different from Woodrow Wilson’s new world order, and I was prepared. Now I just want the call for duty . . . to uncover the dark, expose the corrupt, praise my majestic God, and live, live comfortably in my beloved Monterey . . . .”
Patiently, the suited man listened, careful not to seem disengaged, and periodically eying the bum with unwavering obligation. However, as the ochre candles waxed downward, mimicking the mesmerizing glow of a perfect summer sundown, his eyelids drew heavy and posture contoured to more comfortable fits. Deeply distressed, he felt a ting of shame. Surely, the incontestable words of the warranted reverberated like the loud peals of Vatican church bells, ringing into life the innocence of a child and good will of a Samaritan. “What more can I do for you?”
Never considered to be a religious man, the bum did not belong to a particular church or denomination. He simply believed. Believed that somehow, somewhere, and at some point in time, he’d wake up to his beloved wife, in bed. His request was plain. “Say a prayer for me.”
“Granted. Anything, else?”
“If you don’t mind, may I please use your phone?”
The suited man smiled without batting an eye. “I’m not a technology aficionado, so I rarely keep devices on me whatsoever. And even if I did, I couldn’t authorize its use lest I kill you.” He ended with a light chuckle.
“Well, the joke is on me. The hoosegow awaits and death couldn’t come at a better time.”
“Ah, cheer up.” The gent waited until the bum lifted his eyes, and then resumed. “You can say that about life, too. Time, although it ticks slowly, is a natural healer.” The bum’s disposition didn’t change, and the gracious host offered one of his stories to soothe his company. “My life changed a few months ago. I had just returned to Philadelphia from an excursion in London. I dreaded my return, as I felt I belonged in London. With this realization, I slowly started to hate my job in Philly because not only did I hated playing office politics, but the concept of teamwork irks me. I probably prefer working alone.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe it. I almost pursued a career as a diamantaire, gem cutter or forensic pathologist, but my childhood shaped my pursuit for more meaningful justice.”
“What is that you do?”
“What I always do best – find reason to leave the office.” The bum didn’t laugh, inciting the man to tell more. “About four months ago, in the mist of grunt work and the woes of office bureaucracy, the doors of heaven opened. I became a new man. Stepping out for fresh air, I walked a couple blocks to fetch hot tea and there she was – a pillar of beauty. It was dreary day in Philly, but I swore I saw a rainbow sprout from where she sat. She was golden despite my finding her in an alley. When I approached her, she was sitting on a broken milk crate. Wearing rags and silver flip-flops, her body and teeth shivered uncontrollably. Clearly, this woman was inappropriately dressed for the season, so I offered her to join me for tea. She agreed.” The gent exhaled a puff of smoke and sighed. “Befriending this woman changed my life. She convinced me to do things I vowed never do in life, including but not limited to taking an assignment in California.”
The bum cleared his throat and coughed, “Like what?”
The gent smiled, knowing he sparked curiosity. “Well, although the beautiful Philadelphian could never convince me to attend parties or large social gatherings, I started to smell sweet roses and believed that the glass was half full rather than half empty. You see, my childhood wasn’t easy. My father, a devote Catholic, worked in West Virginia coal mines. On occasion, he worked chopping wood. During the winter, he usually worked six days out of the week to put food on the table. He never called out sick and on Sundays, he always attended Mass. Employed by Novus Ordo Industries, a global private company, my father was known as Mighty Nick amongst his coworkers because he was the hardest working man in town, but to his employer, my father was considered just another Mick, tied to his job and his home. This was unsurprising, as we lived in a coal town heavily populated by persons of Irish ancestry. Both the land and homes were owned by Novus Ordo Industries. Although seasonally employed, full-time during winter months and less so during warmer months, my father labored tirelessly, lavishing my mother with the few luxuries he could afford, but my mother was never happy, never satisfied. She complained how she would have been better off marrying the town’s banker – Luc Lemoine, her childhood sweetheart and our neighbor.” The gent swallowed the lump in his throat before he continued. “My father deeply resented my mother’s comparisons. After work, he’ll sit at the table half asleep, chug a few beers and constantly tell me I was the best thing that happened to him and not to mind my mother, as I too, wasn’t immune to her caustic criticisms. Despite the occasional love my mother showered on me, she said I was full of surprises and would amount to nothing, just like my father.”
“Misery loves company, go on.”
“On my parents’ tenth anniversary, my father claimed he wanted to surprise my mother with a special gift from Kanawha County where they once exchanged vows. Naturally, my mother didn’t object and so my father made his way into town. Two days passed, and we hadn’t heard anything of my father. My mother was hysterical. She ranted about how my father was irresponsible and still awaited her gift. Later, we learned my father committed suicide, jumping seven stories from an abandoned building. Further souring my views on life, my mother died shortly thereafter. Who would have known that my mother’s cause of death was a slice of clafoutis?”
“Cla– what?”
“Clafoutis, a French dessert made with fruit and flan batter. My mother swallowed blueberry lemon clafoutis studded with shards of fine glass.”
“Did they find her killer?”
The gent sighed, carefully flickering cigarette ashes into the marble tray. “No, but the party was thrown by the neighborhood association, and Ms. Lemoine, originally from the Limousin region of France, always baked my mother’s clafoutis. Year after year, she always baked the same blueberry lemon clafoutis for my mother’s birthday, but neighbors believed my mother took her for granted.”
“Is that right?”
“I’m sure Ms. Lemoine harbored some resentment. Meticulous, Ms. Lemoine always took great efforts to please everyone in the neighborhood, but much to her dismay, my mother was a hard sale, as with her husband, Luc.”
“Ah, I would give two or three ribs to be back with my wife. My wife didn’t bake much, but she always managed to please.”
“If you wish to reunite with your wife, why rant obscenities from the pier?”
“To draw her attention.”
Unimpressed, the gent reverted to his story. “Naturally, Ms. Lemoine quickly became a murder suspect, but authorities claimed they lacked probable cause for her arrest. Apparently, Ms. Lemoine lacked motive and the dessert was stored in the neighborhood clubhouse, accessible to anyone in the neighborhood prior to the party. Anyone could have switched the dessert. Anyone could have destroyed its integrity.”
“Did Ms. Lemoine know of your mother’s crush on her husband?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Was your mother the only person to eat the cake?”
“Clafoutis isn’t really a cake, but for conversational purposes, yes. Yes, she was the only one to eat the personal-sized dessert cake.” The gent uncrossed his legs, only to cross them in the opposite direction. His eyes watered. “There were rumors my mother was secretly receiving psychiatric help. Authorities believed my mother was manic depressive and intentionally caused herself harm.” The native West Virginian poured himself another drink and swallowed slowly. “Shortly after my mother’s funeral, Ms. Lemoine fled town. Neighbors were convinced that Ms. Lemoine fled to Quebec or New Brunswick with a suitcase filled with money and a few bricks of gold.”
“Is that right?”
“The hussy spoke French fluently, making it easy for her to assimilate in Canada.”
“What became of Mr. Lemoine?”
“He suffered a massive stroke the same night he learned of my mother’s death.”
“Have you recovered? Recovered from the trauma?”
“The death of my parents changed me forever. I became an orphan and was eventually placed with an affluent family in California. Despite the distant miles, despite the pain, I’ve never stop looking for Ms. Lemoine.” The gent lit another cigarette. “However, the biggest change in my life was meeting a wonderful woman. She restored my self-worth. I started to believe in myself, again.”
“Lovely, just lovely. Now has the rainbow disappeared?”
“Nothing lasts forever, my friend. Nothing.”
“While in confinement, I’ll try remembering that, but in this world, friends are few.”
“True.”
“Then why do you refer me as a friend?”
“Because I am here to help.”
“Ugh, huh. Are you religious?”
“People say I’m a splitting image of my father, but religious, I am not. Catholic Mass bores me.”
“Ugh, huh.”
“So, how may I help you?”
Doubting the man’s ability to accurately assemble the portrait he so often described, as with his genuineness, the bum replied negligently, “Send a message to my wife.”
With pen and unlined paper in hand, the gent asked, “If I ever be so honored to encounter such an exquisite pearl as you’ve described, what shall I say?”
“So you’re willing to be the big voice?”
“The well dries at least five times over for gowks. Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?”
The bum sought composure, withholding a welt of tears. “Tell her, despite the many wrongs I’ve suffered at her hands, that –” The bum paused, exhaling slowly. His round eyes, gentle and deep, marveled at the dark sky speckled with lights as he choked, “Th – that, that I’ve always loved her as I’ve loved Monterey. And whether the end, when we reunite, leads us to heaven or hell, we shall never again part.”
Monterey County, so often referred to as simply “Monterey” or “the County” was much to be desired as with the bum’s beautiful wily wife, was now muddied by way of hushed memories and soulful spiritual songs of ghosts.
About: As a child, Taylor never dreamt of becoming a writer and as an adult life is bittersweet.
In 2024, Taylor expects to release her third novel: Rencontrez-moi
Genre: Psychological Thriller, Neo-Noir
Taylor's novels are listed on Amazon Kindle for purchase. Taylor is also the author of Momme Weight Highlighted titles are links to Amazon. Click.
Commercial Contact: P.O. Box 103 Augusta, Georgia 30903 U.S.A.
2015 copyright