They Say The Lighthouse Hasn't Worked In Years, But I Saw Its Light Last Night | Part 1
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including the new release, "Killing Him Once Wasn't Enough." Only available for premium members. That's patreon.com/drnosleep. Craggy, barren, desolate, rocky. All those words and more can describe the coastline off to my right. They could describe my life as well. The bleak coastal cliffs wind and curve themselves around the edge of the continent. White birds of different sizes fight the frigid gusts of wind.

and this is summer. I have no idea why tourists even visit this remote part of the country, and it's a pair of tourists I focus my attention on while pretending to read the local paper, the Cravens Point Gazette. I ignore the quaint articles and dire weather reports, way more interested in the drama unfolding before me.

"Yes, ma'am, you did order Eggs Benedict," the waiter says, forcing a smile onto his face even though he has every right to scream and spit at the woman seated before him. He nods at the plate of food the woman is yelling at. "And that is our Eggs Benedict, perfectly poached eggs on a large medallion of Canadian bacon with extra creamy…" "Do I look like I play hockey?" the woman barks, her head snapping up so she can glare at the waiter.

The waiter, smile still glued in place, has to take a moment. Any sane person would when presented with such a perplexing question. "I, um, would have to say that you do not look like you play hockey." The waiter finally answers, breaking the cold, cruel silence the woman has built between them. "But if you do, my apologies. I wouldn't want to assume." "No, I do not play hockey," she says. "Do I look like I tap maple trees?"

Now I see where the thankless hag is going with this. The poor waiter, a guy who simply wants to make some tips for the next three months before he heads back to whatever Ivy League college he attends, probably after forking over scholarship money, is at a complete loss. I sigh and get up from my table, setting the newspaper down by my plate so it's obvious I'm coming back and head for the restroom. On my way, I lean close to the waiter and whisper, "'Canadian.'

To his credit, he doesn't twitch a muscle as I say this. Instead, he clears his throat and says, "I see what the problem is. Are you not happy with the Canadian bacon, ma'am?

"Well, first, I'm American," she says. "And second, Eggs Benedict comes with ham, not bacon. And certainly not some fruity moose-turd looking Canadian type of bacon." "I am sorry for any expectations, ma'am, but our menu clearly states that we use…" The waiter's voice muffles as I step into the restroom. I wasn't just trying to save the guy's bacon. No, unintended. I do have to pee.

Coffee runs right through me, like there's a hose hooked from my mouth to my bladder to my kidneys, and then down out the spout, as my old man used to say. When I return to my table, the horrid woman holds a self-satisfied smirk, the one people have after bullying someone into getting their way. Her companion, an equally ugly-tempered-looking bitty, sits just as smugly, tearing piece after piece off a croissant without eating any.

The neuroses of the privileged are something to behold, all right. I sip my coffee, and am not surprised when the waiter returns with a new plate of Eggs Benedict, a huge slab of the completely wrong kind of ham wedged between the egg and the English muffin. The woman says nothing, just ignores the waiter as the plate is delivered, then digs in ferociously, as if she hasn't eaten in days. Her companion continues to shred that poor croissant.

"May I get you anything else, ladies?" the waiter asks. "Your face away from our table would be nice." The croissant killer says, all smiles and snark. "Of course." The waiter gives a short bow before retreating to the safety of the kitchen. Fucking tourists. They are the worst. Not that I'm a local. My family does come from the area, several generations back. But having blood here and actually living here are two very different things.

But despite my parents having passed, and my sister too, I keep coming back to the old coastal town, Cravens Point. Population 350 locals during the off-season. Then 350 locals plus 3,000 douchebags during the summer. Although, since Cravens Point is one of the best lobster fishing towns on the coast, I wouldn't really say there is an off-season. Folks here work all year round.

It just happens that two-thirds of the year, they all wear oil skins and rubber boots and man lobster traps and fishing nets. While the other third of the year, some wear polo shirts and khakis while they keep from punching Canadian bacon-hating twats in the face. I take my time finishing my lemon poppy seed muffin as I read the paper.

After about 30 more minutes of inane drama, the two despicable women finally leave after paying cash and making sure everyone in the cafe knows the waiter needs to bring back every penny of change because he certainly is not getting a tip. There is a collective sigh of relief when the door closes on their dumpy asses. Even the other tourists in the cafe look glad they're gone. Not that they won't put their vacation feet in their vacation mouths at some point too.

I say to the waiter when he comes by to fill up my coffee. The waiter replies. He says smiling. I pause, pretty sure he hadn't said Pope before. I shrug it off and smile back.

I may not be local, but that doesn't mean I have to turn into an asshole the second I cross the town lines. I pour sugar, then cream into my coffee and stir. "Yeah, but your family is from here, right?" the waiter asks. His smile becomes slightly nervous. "You're Gordon DuPont, right? The writer?" A debate rages in my head. I could deny it and risk sounding snobbish, even though that's as far from my intention as possible.

Or I could admit it and risk a million questions about my current work, having shat out an award-winning bestseller a decade ago and nothing else since. People are curious. I get that. My agent and publisher are both curious too. The problem is, I don't have an answer for any of them. Not the readers, not my agent, not my publisher. I write all the time. I just don't write anything that could lead to another critically acclaimed blockbuster.

In a way, I'm curious too. "It's ornamental," I hear a man say to his wife as they sip mimosas, despite it being a Tuesday morning. "But every day is Sunday if you're on vacation, right?" "Ornamental?" the wife replies. "Then why not tear it down? It's an eyesore standing right there. It blocks a perfectly good view."

The eyesore they are referring to is a historic lighthouse. It sits at the end of a mile-long jetty that sticks far out into the waters on the harbor's north side. "Or someone could renovate it and then turn a handsome profit as a bed and breakfast," the husband suggests. "I do not want to move up here," the wife snaps. "Why is it every place we visit, you want to move to and start some stupid hick business?"

"I don't do that," he says. "Oh, how about Taos and the Spa? I wasn't serious. Utah and the ATV business? That was me just goofing around. The avocado orchard in California? You love avocados. To eat, Michael, to eat. Not to grow or sell or anything other than eating. It's not ornamental," I say. The couple pause and look around, then see me watching them.

"Excuse me?" the man asks. "The lighthouse," I say. "It's not ornamental, it works. I got here yesterday and have a place on the other side of the jetty. I watched it light up last night just after I went to bed." The couple frowns at me, then the man says, "That's nice," before turning his attention back to his wife while widening his eyes like I just said the lighthouse has a penis. I shrug. "They don't want to know the truth, then that's on them."

Really, I'm just glad they didn't recognize me. The husband looks like the type who probes deep into literary meaning. I hate those fucking readers. "Your place is the Split Lamb, right?" The waiter asks, startling me. "Jesus, have you been standing there the whole time? You never answered my question. Which one? What you're working on now? Oh, I didn't hear you." A bell dings and his head swivels around toward the kitchen.

I'm about to tell him that yes, I mind a lot, but he's gone and heading into the kitchen before I can open my mouth. Turns out, the locals suck too. Considerably less than the tourists, but still.

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I finish my coffee, throw a lot of cash on the table because I feel sorry for how the waiter got stiffed by the two bitches, and head outside to my car. It's a used Toyota Corolla from the turn of the century. I had a Jaguar once, back when the best seller money was rolling in. But a decade is a long time to go between books, and my business manager thought I should be more practical. I may have gone a little overboard on practical.

The Corolla groans itself awake and I back out of the parking lot, point the nose north, and wind my way first out of Cravens Point, and then along the coastline to the rotting mansion known locally as the Split Lamb. I don't know why it's called that. My parents didn't know why it was called that. Even my sister tried to find out before she died of breast cancer a few years ago.

There's no record of the name origin, and the locals either are ignorant as well, or they just don't feel like it's their job to explain why a mansion is called something. Especially when most live in two-bedroom claptraps that might blow away in the next big storm. I get that. My ancestral summer home isn't their problem. It's a beautiful morning for Cravens Point, which means the sun can just be seen fighting through the clouds, and the wind blows slower than 20 miles per hour.

When I reach the oak that was hit by lightning well before I was born, I turn right, passing around it. The lightning strike gave it a claw-like appearance, like it's trying to snatch the occluded sun right out of the sky forever. I turn right into the gravel driveway and wind my way past equally bizarre-looking oaks, pines, and cedars. When the view opens up, I can see for miles out over the ocean. Then the split lamb blocks my view of everything.

The place was considered a mansion many decades ago, but with the proliferation of prefab McMansions popping up all over the country, the Split Lamb barely counts as anything more than a big house now. Six bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a huge kitchen, a den, a sitting room, a solarium, two dining rooms, a living room, and a breakfast nook, all squeezed into about 6,000 square feet. I use one bedroom, the kitchen, and the den.

Sometimes the sitting room, since it looks out over the ocean. Other than that, I barely touch the place. Like a living ghost haunting just the rooms that matter to it. Which is a weird thing to admit. The front door opens with barely a touch, and I stare at it for a moment. Hello? I call out as I open the door the rest of the way with the toe of my shoe. Someone here? In the kitchen! A familiar voice calls to me.

I sigh and step inside, closing the door behind me. Then I make my way back to the kitchen and put on a very fake smile. "Jordy," I say to my agent. "What are you doing here?" Jordy LeClair. Not Jordan, but Jordy. Massively successful literary agent and bon vivant, whatever that means. It's on his business card, seriously. In his late 60s, with a shock of wild unkempt white hair sprouting this way and that from his freckled scalp,

"Jordy has more energy than I do, and I'm just shy of 20 years younger than him." "Gordo!" Jordy exclaims as he licks mayonnaise off his fingers before placing the top piece of bread on a sandwich he's helped himself to. "It's been a while. Jordy," I repeat, "what are you doing here?" "Well, I'm glad you asked," he says, taking a huge bite, which he does not bother chewing and swallowing before he continues.

Yes, I get it. I go to the cupboard furthest from the fridge. I open it and pull down the bottle of bourbon I keep for shitty occasions. I can already tell this is one of those. What kind of changes?

"Pour me one," Geordi says. "The flight up here was crap, and the taxi ride to your place was worse. No Uber up here in the sticks?" "No." I pour two glasses of bourbon. I hand a glass to Geordi, and he takes it with a huge grin. He has bits of bread stuck to his front teeth, but I don't say anything. At least the bread is in his mouth. "Well, you see, Gordo," Geordi says after a long swig of bourbon, "we are paring down our client list.

and I've been cut. I lift my glass. "Baham, I didn't know you were Jewish." "I'm not." "Oh, it was a joke. Good one. You didn't need to come all this way to drop me, Jordy." I say and down my bourbon, ready for another. "Who said anything about dropping you?" Jordy replies, stuffing more sandwich into his mouth. "Oh no, I'm here to offer you some seriously great work." Surprised, I stop pouring bourbon so I can look back and focus on Jordy.

He smiles at me, completely sincere. "Great. What's the work?" "The novelization of the upcoming blockbuster movie, The Dancing Queen." He holds his hands out like he's presented me with the greatest gift ever. "Pretty great, right?" "What the fuck is The Dancing Queen?" "It's a biopic about the life of Agnetha Felkscog, of course." He laughs. "Dancing Queen, get it?" "No, not even a little." I reply, and go back to pouring my bourbon.

Who the hell is Anja Falstaff? Agnetha Fältskog! Jordi over-enunciates the Swedish singer's name as his tone turns from celebratory to annoyed. She's one of the members of ABBA! ABBA? Like the band? That ABBA? Exactly! This is quite an honor. She even requested you write the novelization, because she loved the Swedish translation of your last book.

My only book. Well, yeah, true. But what a book, right? And you think I should go from a novel about the immigrant struggle from the 1920s to a biography about a pop singer? Well, no. You'd be writing the novelization of the biopic. You aren't really writing the biography. The movie handles all that. You just have to turn the screenplay into a book. I sip my bourbon, then suck my teeth, making loud smacking noises.

"Gonna pass on that, Geordi," I say and lift my glass. "Not my thing." "Right. Your thing." Geordi sighs. "What is your thing again? A one and done author? Big hit, no follow up author? Pretentious prick who needs to pull his head out of his ass or be lost to obscurity author? Which thing is it again?" "Thanks for coming by, Geordi." I give him a hard stare.

"It pays six figures," Geordi says as he wipes his mouth with a napkin and then tosses it on the counter. "High six figures, plus royalties which rarely happens with novelizations. Those tend to be flat fee. Work for hire gigs only, Gordo. But your amazing agent negotiated a 10% royalty." He stands there like he's waiting for me to cheer and thank him and pat him on the back. I sip my bourbon instead.

It's a standoff for a good five minutes. He waits for gratitude that isn't coming, and I wait for him to leave, which is taking way too long. "Pass," I say finally and set my glass down. "Thanks for coming by." "What is wrong with you?" Geordi snaps as he looks around the kitchen, searching for something. He finds it. Paper towels. Ripping off a handful, he actually wraps up the rest of his sandwich and holds it up, shaking it in my direction.

"You're about to be a footnote on early 21st century literary history. You could have been one of the greats. Thomas Pynchon, David Foster Wallace, Brett Easton Ellis, Pat Conroy, the Johns, Updyke and Irving. That's the pantheon you would have been included in." "I ain't dead yet, Geordi." "I wish," he mutters. "Then your one goddamn book would be worth something." "Thanks for that," I say and take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Geordi shakes his head.

Fucking writers. He walks out of the kitchen. He holds the paper towel wrapped sandwich up. Thanks for lunch, asshole. You'll be getting the separation of services letter by registered mail next week, followed by an email with exact details on how the agency will handle the dissolution of our partnership. Looking forward to it. I call after him.

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A couple of seconds later, I hear the door slam.

Just a second after that, I hear the door open back up, then footsteps down the hallway. "I have to call a taxi," he says and holds up his phone. "And this Wuthering Heights reject of an estate has shit for cell service." "Landline is right there," I nod at the phone on the wall by the basement door. "Knock yourself out." Then I change my mind. "You know what? I'll drive you into town. It'll be faster. Fuck you." He picks up the phone.

I shrug and walk out of the kitchen, leaving him to his call. With drink still in hand, I head to the den and shut the door, blocking out Jordy's voice as it booms through the house. "Yes!" he shouts. "Split ham or something stupid like that! It's the same address as where you dropped me off! Yes, the New York guy with the hair! That's me! How long? Are you fucking kidding me? Hello? Hello?"

I hear the phone slam down, then stomping feet. The feet stop, then start, then stop, then start, then stop again. "Where the fuck are you?" Geordi shouts. "In the den!" I call. Stomp, stomp, stomp. The door bursts open. "I'll take that ride." "I'm a little busy," I reply as I open my laptop. "It's hard work being a footnote in early 21st century literary history." "Fuck you, Gordon. Don't be a bitch about this."

Before I can reply, there's a loud knock at the front door. "Maybe that's your taxi. They hung up on me." I shrug and get up. Geordi blocks the door, then slowly moves out of my way. When I open the door, I am both surprised and not surprised to see who is standing on the stoop. "Oh, hi," I say. "Hello, Mr. DuPont." It's the waiter from the cafe. "Thanks for letting me swing by."

He holds out his hand. "Morris Snodgrass. We didn't formally meet earlier." I stare at the hand for a moment, then shake it. "Morris Snodgrass? That's an unfortunate name," Geordi says, crowding behind me. "Not my choice," Morris says, frowning. "My former agent," I say and step aside. "Um, come on in." "Thank you, thank you." Morris walks past me and Geordi. He turns a quick circle in the foyer and then nods appreciatively.

"It's just like I thought it'd look." "Great." I close the front door. "Let's go sit in the kitchen. You can ask me all the questions you want to ask me." "Oh, I only have one question, Mr. DuPont." Morris says. "Call him Gordo." Geordi says. "He loves that." Gordon is fine. I head to the kitchen. "Tea? Coffee?" "Oh, now you have time?" Geordi asks, right on my heels. "Go away, Geordi." I grab the kettle off the stove, fill it, and start it boiling.

"This place is amazing!" Morris joins us in the kitchen. "How long has your family owned it?" "Is that your one question?" "Oh, no. Definitely not." Morris shakes his head. "I don't know," I say. "Six generations? Something like that." "Wonderful." Morris goes to the kitchen window. "You can see the lighthouse from here." He turns. "Did you see it light up from this window or from a different view?"

"No bonus questions," A'san laughed. Morris doesn't. "That wasn't a bonus question, Gordon," Morris says. "That is the question I came to ask." "Not your usual fan question," Geordi says. "Why are you here?" Morris asks Geordi.

Geordi looks from Morris to me and back to Morris. "Um, kid, you seem nice, but maybe today isn't the day for a visit," Geordi says in that voice he uses when he's fending off nosy journalists. "Perhaps you could come back another time? Gordo and I have important business to discuss." "As we do," Morris says. "We who?" Geordi asks. "Myself and Gordon." "Yourself and Gordon?" "That's what I said."

I'm enjoying the back and forth. The kid is holding his own against a titan of an asshole. Props to him. "Gordo?" Geordi turns to me. "Geordi? A little help? Why? You're doing fine." "Who knows you are here, Mr. LeClair?" Morris asks. "What?" Geordi responds, giving me a confused look. "Who knows you are here, Mr. LeClair?" Morris repeats. "Uh, everyone at my office," Geordi answers. "Not that it's any of your business."

"I heard you need a ride," Morris says. "What the fuck is this?" Geordi looks at me. "Is this some bit? Did you put this kid up to this?" "I have no idea what is going on," I say. The kettle whistles and I take it off the burner. "Who wants tea?" "Was it this room or a different room, Gordon?" Morris asks me. "I know I have come off as strange, but if you answer my question, I'll be out of your hair immediately." Then he looks at Geordi.

"I can even give you a ride into town, Mr. LeClair. A shuttle bus leaves every half hour for the airport. So no tea?" I look at Geordi. "What about you?" "Answer the kid's question so I can get out of here," Geordi says, then looks at Morris. "And don't even think of trying anything on the way into town. I studied Krav Maga with a client. I could kill with two fingers." "Why use fingers when you can use a knife?" Morris asks. Then he bursts out laughing. "I'm messing with you."

Then he stops laughing and stares at me hard. "Which room, Gordon?" "Sitting room," I say. "May I see it?" "No." I shake my head. "I've been cool about all of this, but I think it's time to go, Morris. Thanks for coming by. Maybe I'll see you at the café again." Which is never going to happen. I'll be avoiding that café like the plague.

"Yes, of course." Morris smiles at Geordi. "Care for that ride, sir?" "Sir!" Geordi laughs. "I'll take weird with manners over stupid with an ego any day. That last part was about me, wasn't it?" I ask, and then show them both to the front door. "Have a safe ride into town. Nice meeting you officially, Morris. Go fuck yourself, Geordi." Morris waves. Geordi flips me the bird. I slam the door and go back to the kitchen to finish making tea.

I end up just filling the mug with bourbon instead. Back in the den, I open the document I've been struggling with for the last few years. There is exactly one sentence written. "Before I even saw her, I knew we would be together forever." It's a shitty line, and I hate it more than anything else in the universe. But that's all I have been able to write when I sit down and try to start a new novel. I drain half the mug, burn my throat with a hard belch, then reread the sentence.

And reread it. And reread it. I finish the mug and refill it in the kitchen. Then return and reread the sentence. Geordi can call me whatever he wants to call me. I don't really care. All I care about is getting this damn sentence out of my head once and for all. And I know writing a novelization of one of the A's in ABBA will not do the trick. I finish the second mug of bourbon and go for a third. And a fourth.

By the time the sun is set, the bottle is empty and I can barely keep my eyes open. I stumble from my desk to the couch up against the wall and collapse onto the dusty cushions. I mount like a light. "Gordon?" I come awake fast, my fists swinging this way and that, swatting empty air as I struggle to pull myself out of my drunken stupor. "It's alright, Gordon. It's me, Morris."

I scramble up to the couch's arm and slap at the table lamp, finally finding the cord and turning the thing on. Standing in my den is Morris Snodgrass, and he holds a knife. A very long, very sharp knife.

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