Tony's Bio
Acting Resume

More Stories by Anthony:
WRITER'S CRAMP
ANIMAL BEHAVIOR
 

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EMAIL: authors@wnwg.org

      “ ‘As Detective Matt Maloy placed the handcuffs on Lady Winterly’s dainty wrists, he looked into her emerald green eyes and said, …’ ”
      “ ‘…He looked into her emerald green eyes and said, …’ ”
      “He looked and he said, …”
      “I haven’t a friggin’ clue as to what this jerk said,” Paul shouted, as he yanked the paper out of the typewriter, crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket.  “I hate it.  One more line, just one more and I’m through with this damn story.” 
      “I hate this story,” Paul said, popping a cigarette between his lips.  “I should have never started this damn thing.” 
      Paul walked over to the stove and used the gas burner to light his cigarette.
      “Okay, just stay calm.  You can do this,” he said, pacing across the floor of his cramped studio apartment.
      “Shit,” he said, looking at the wall clock in the kitchen.  “Twenty minutes until the FedEx guy gets here to pick up the manuscript.”
      “Damn, it.  Damn, it.  Damn, it.  What does he say?  What does this moron say to her?” 
      Paul walked over to the kitchen counter and tore open a bag of Oreo cookies.  He grabbed a handful of Oreos and continued pacing the floor.  “What does he like about her?  Okay, that’s a start.  What does he like about her that he might comment on.”  Paul ate several Oreos as the ideas bounced around inside his head.
      “Matt Maloy looked into her emerald green eyes and said, …nice shoes!” 
      Paul slumped into the threadbare recliner chair, his head buried in his hands.  “Oh God, this is terrible.  My brain is frozen and I can’t find the words.  I should have become a dentist like my cousin Ernie.” 
      Paul rocked back and forth.  “Coffee, I need more coffee.  That’ll do it.”
      Paul pulled himself out of the recliner.  He grabbed the coffee cup from his desk and walked back into the kitchen.  He threw some instant coffee into his cup, added tap water and shoved the cup in the microwave.  As he waited for the coffee to heat up, he paced over to the dartboard hanging on his closet door.  He grabbed a dart and whipped it across the room.  The dart impaled a picture of Paul’s publisher, Sol Lipschitz, right between the eyes, and shattered the glass frame.
      “You,” Paul yelled, charging towards the picture.  “It’s all your fault, you rat bastard.  You and your deadlines.  How can you put a deadline on creativity?  Did Michelangelo have a deadline?  Did Van Gogh have a deadline?”
      “One day,” Paul said, wagging his finger at Sol’s picture.  “Mark my words.  One of these days, the worm will turn and you will get yours.”
      The microwave dinged.
      “Coffee, I need coffee.” 
      Paul raced over to the microwave.  He gently took out the coffee cup and blew a cooling breath over the healing elixir.  He gingerly sipped from the cup, then leaned up against the kitchen counter.  “Oh, that’s good,” he said.  He lazily took a deep drag from his cigarette and slowly exhaled.  “That’s even better,” he said.
      Paul stared at the typewriter across the room.  He put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and resolutely walked towards the typewriter.  He gently placed the coffee cup on top of the dozens of coffee rings that patterned his desk.  He reached over to the stack of clean, white, 22-pound typing paper and lovingly took a sheet.  With exacting precision, he placed the paper in the typewriter roller.  He took one last drag on his cigarette then crushed it in the overly full ashtray.
      Paul leaned in towards the typewriter and began typing.
      “ ‘As Detective Matt Maloy placed the handcuffs on Lady Winterly’s dainty wrists, he looked into her emerald green eyes and said, ‘Love is a funny thing.  It can happen when you least expect it, and with the person you hadn’t even considered.  I know it’ll be tough on you, sugar.  It’ll be tough on me too.  But, when you get out of prison, I’ll be at the gate waitin’ for you.  No matter how long you’re in for, I’ll wait for you, baby.’
      As the policeman put Lady Winterly into the patrol car, Matt flipped up the collar of his trench coat and walked down the street into the night.’ ”
      “The end,” Paul shouted, taking the final page out of the typewriter and putting it with the rest of the manuscript.
      Paul grabbed a large yellow post-it notepad and a felt tipped pen.  He began to write. 
      “ ‘Dear Sol, 
      Enclosed, you will find my latest manuscript titled, ‘Lies Never Die.’
      Thank you for all your support and encouragement.
      Best regards,
      Paul
      P.S. Please send me a new picture of you.  It seems that there has been another accident.’ ” 
      At that moment, the doorbell rang.  “FedEx, right on time,” Paul said, putting his manuscript inside the overnight delivery envelope.

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