Free 1 Breakfast at Madeline's by Matt Witten

McDonald's sign could belong to a romantic rival, part of a humor ous subplot.
    Sure, dream on, I told myself harshly. By the time Hollywood got done with your script, they'd scratch Matthau for Keanu. Your sexy old preacher would be turned into a coldblooded young action hero battling renegade Uzbeks or some shit like that. Or more likely, if the script was any good it would never get pro duced. Instead it would sit on a shelf somewhere for twenty years, then get tossed out.
    I hated myself when I got all bitter like this. Every screenwriter I've ever met, even ones who make seven figures per year, have that streak of bitterness inside them. There's so much dumb luck involved, to say noth ing of dumb people . That was the main reason I'd de cided to take a hiatus from writing—I didn't like what it was turning me into. I could feel the bitterness growing inside me like a tumor, and I wanted to cut it out.
    Though to be honest, I reflected, as we turned off Route 50 onto Broadway, it wasn't so much a question of deciding to take a hiatus; my writing urge just plain up and left me. Half a year ago already. When would it return... and what if it never did? If I wasn't a writer anymore, then what was I?
    One day, forty-some years from now, a lonely group of people would be s tanding in the rain at some sub urban cemetery. A tired old rabbi would mouth a few final words, and then I'd be lowered into the ground. And what would those people be saying about me? What would I say about myself, in the final moment of my life? What would God say, if there was a God?
    Lately Andrea had been after me to try volunteer work, maybe some t utoring with the Literacy Volun teers like she did, but I seemed to be just too darn lazy these days. I was sta ying away from the Nestle choco late bits now, but I wa s still five or ten pounds over weight; I should exercise more. Hey, I should exercise, period.
    I gazed moodily out the window. We were stuck be hind a cement truck that was laboriously positioning itself in front of the new Arts Center. Even in the rain, the work never stopped; they just rigged up tarps overhead and ke pt on going. Gretchen was deter mined to get the place up and running in time for the summer tourists, and what Gretchen Lang wanted, Gretchen Lang generally got.
    Speak of the devil, there she was. On the sidewalk, sharing the mayor's umbrella. A quick jolt went through me; by jiminy, I had some questions for the woman. This time I found the door lock on my first try, and jumped out of the car.
    "Hey!" the minister called out.
    "Thanks for the lift! You should write a book!" I called back as I walked up to Gretchen, interrupting her tête-à-tête with Mayor Kane. He looked perfect as always, totally dry and not an eyebrow out of place, as though mere rain couldn't affect a great man like him. Gretchen was her usual self too, her arms flying excit edly all over the place as she talked. She was fifty-five if she was a day, maybe sixty, but the woman hadn't lost a step.
    "Hi, Gretchen," I said.
    Her arms stopped in mid-air. A shadow passed across her features, q uickly replaced by a big welcom ing smile. "Jacob, how are you? Want to watch them pour the wheelchair ramp?"
    "No. I want to talk to you about Donald Penn."
    The Mayor gave a quick start, but Gretchen just smiled at me even more warmly. It was like she'd been expecting me.
    "Sure, I'd love to talk about Donny. Such a sweet, wonderful little man. Let's just watch this first." Her arms started flying again. "See, this ramp is a symbol of what our whole project is all about: making the arts accessible to everyone, not just the Mary Lou Whitneys and the rich summer tourists but the women who work the checkout counter at Wal-Mart, the men who work at International Paper their whole lives, and the kids, especially the kids, that's my passion, I want to start a children's theater here ... "
    She went on and on. I tried to stop her, but it was like trying to stop some radio