The Maine Events by Rodney Riesel (most important books of all time txt) 📕

Allen looked over. “You slept through all of that, dog,” hesaid. “Are ya going deaf, or ya just don't give a shit?”

Frankie barked.

“Whatever.”

Allen adjusted the chair that Tucker neglected to return tothe position it was in when he arrived. He sat down and scooted closer to thetable. He readied his hands for the flurry of words that was sure to escape hismind at any moment. Dialogue was always Allen's strong point, but no one in hishead was speaking. His fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Come on, he thought. Write something.

Allen's eyes wandered to the bottle of rum on the sink, andthen to the digital clock on the microwave.

“Whaddaya think, Frankie, rum o'clock?”

Allen didn't wait for the dog's answer. He walked to thesink, took an 8-ounce glass out of the cabinet, and filled it to about thehalfway point.

“Remind me to get some soda and a bag of that ice out of thefreezer in the office.”

Allen walked back to the table and stood behind the chair,staring out over the ocean. He leaned forward and to his right to see if hecould see the lighthouse. He couldn't.

“I'm gonna walk across the street and sit on the seawall.You want to come with me?”

Frankie didn't move.

“The tide's coming in. I can see the water crashing againstthe wall from here.” Allen sipped his rum. “Fine, I'll go by myself. Don't pisson the floor.”

Allen walked back to the sink and added another two shots tothe glass. He looked back over his shoulder at Frankie to make sure the muttwasn't giving him a look of judgment. Frankie's eyes were closed. Allen felt asthough he'd gotten away with something. He tiptoed to the door and walkedoutside, pulling the door quietly shut behind him. When he heard the doorknobclick, he continued on his way.

Crossing the parking lot, Allen noticed Jacob and anotherkid about the same age sitting at one of the picnic tables on the grass. Thetwo boys sat on the same bench, facing away from the table. Jacob held a pieceof white paper in his hands. The other boy pulled the paper over so he couldget a better look.

“What do you have there?” Allen called out. “A treasuremap?”

The boys looked in Allen's direction. The other boy yankedthe paper out of Jacob's hand and shoved it into the side pocket of his blackand yellow board shorts.

“No,” said Jacob. “It's just a piece of paper.”

“Okay,” Allen replied. He figured he wouldn't press it.After all, it was obvious the boys didn't want him to see whatever it was onthe paper—and it was none of his damn business anyway. He looked back at theboys a couple times as he crossed the street. They kept their eyes on him untilhe sat down on the seawall. The last time Allen looked back, the two boys werelooking at the paper again. He sipped his drink and turned back to the risingsea.

The top of the seawall was about fifteen feet above thewaterline. Allen wondered how high it would eventually get. He watched themurky green sea water crash against the first two steps, recede, and then do itall over again. When the waves hit the wall, the spray would shoot ten ortwelve feet into the air. A few times, when the breeze blew just right, Allencould feel the mist hit his face.

Out of the corner of his eye, Allen caught sight of anelderly man to his right. He was tall, around six-three, Allen guessed, andprobably in his mid to late seventies. He wore tan Levi's, a butterscotchWestern-style shirt with pearl snaps rolled up to his elbows, and a scruffyJohn Deere cap perched atop his head. His heavily scuffed Justin boots fit himlike a second skin. The duds looked natural on his wiry, work-hardened frame;Allen's writer's eye identified a man who had worked close to the land all hislife, took no guff from anyone, and could handle himself in most any situation.

The old gentleman sat down about ten feet to Allen's right,near one of the plastic sawhorses. Allen nodded, and the old-timer nodded back.He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gazing over the water.

After a few minutes, the old guy said, “Fire and water.”

Allen turned his head. “How's that?”

“Fire and water,” he repeated. “Two things people can stareat for hours.”

Allen nodded. “Waterfalls,” he added.

“There's them.”

“Of course, I guess that would fall into the watercategory.”

“I wasn't gonna bring that up.”

“Bridges?”

“I could stare at a bridge for a while,” said the old man.“And the stars.”

“Oh, yeah, the stars. Can't believe I didn't think of that.You staying at the Sunrise Motel?”

“Nope.” He gestured south along York Street. “Me and Mildredis stayin' at the Grand View.”

“How long you staying?”

“This is our third night—got four more to go. You?”

“Just got in today, and we're staying for two weeks.”

“You and the missus?”

“Me and my dog. There's no missus.”

The old man scooted down a few feet and held out his hand.“The name's Cam Owens.” The man's grip was warm and firm. Allen felt ancientcallouses digging into his own tender flesh. He felt a little sheepish,thinking the hardest work he ever did was pecking away on a keyboard.

“Allen—Allen Crane.”

Cam thought for a second. “Allen Crane, the book writer?”

Allen nodded. “Yes, sir.” He couldn't help but grin. It hadbeen a while since two people had recognized him on the same day.

“Oh Lordy,” said Cam, slapping his knees. “Mildred is gonnabe tickled when I tell her I shook hands with Allen Crane.”

“You read my books?”

“God, no. I'm more of a wait till the movie comes out kindaguy. Mildred's read all yer books though. She just loves 'em. Of course, Imight as well read them. She yaks on and on about 'em while she's readin'. Atthis point I feel like I know Reed—what's his name?”

Allen smiled again. “Templeton.”

“I feel like I know Reed Templeton personally. He's quite acharacter—drinks too much. Sometimes I wonder if a man could really partake atthat level and still function.”

Allen glanced down at his glass of rum. Oh, it's possible,he thought.

“How many books ya got?” Cam asked.

“Four.”

“That it?” Cam asked