The original post can be found here on The Faerie Review
People always ask me where my inspiration comes from for stories and characters. A lot come from inside my head, but I also draw from real-life experiences and people. As a hilarious yet perfect example of a real-life experience making its way into one of my books, the following scene with Sara Donovan (the protagonist in the Mauzzy & Me Mystery series) is based on something that happened to me about twelve years ago. I wrote this scene for Fire and Ice, but it was eventually reduced to a half page during the editing process (Chapter 17, page 146). The first half of the scene came from my imagination, but the second half with Glasses Guy and the monsoon actually happened to yours truly and my prized jeep. Right down to Glasses Guy’s “simpleton” comment. It was unbelievable—yet it really happened. And yes, all I was trying to do was run in and drop off a box of tennis rackets to return. Instead, I got… Well, you’ll see.
****
Glasses Guy
After my morning meeting with Mrs. Majelski, her chilling words rang in my head the rest of the day and all the way home. There’s your point of entry. When I got home, Zoe and Matt must have been off somewhere because the alarm was on. I turned it off and with my pepper spray leading the way, I dashed past a waiting Mauzzy and through the hall and kitchen. The door into the garage was unlocked. I cracked it open, stuck the pepper spray in the gap, then ripped the door open.
It was empty, except for Dad’s prized fire-red jeep.
After locking the garage door and checking it twice, I returned to the kitchen and fed a prancing famished Mauzzy. Sitting on the kitchen table was the pile of bills I forgot to mail yesterday along with the demo tennis rackets Mom asked me to return. I checked my watch. The overnight express place closed in fifteen minutes. Since the rackets came with a prepaid return box, I just needed to drop it off. If I rushed, I could make—
Dang it.
My hatchback was on fumes. There was no time to get gas and make it to the store in time.
However—
I made a snap decision.
I gathered up the tennis rackets and wrapped them in the bubble wrap that came with the return box. But I couldn’t bring myself to put them into the box. Just yet. Despite the need for speed, I took a joyous moment to pop a few of the bubbles. Okay, more than a few. It was beyond exhilarating. And yeah, I have a burgeoning romance with the stuff.
With my addiction sufficiently quelled, I stuffed the wrapped rackets into the box and sealed it. With the box under my arm, I scooped up the bills and headed to the garage. As I opened the door, I lifted Dad’s jeep key off the key-holder on the wall and dashed for his baby before coming to a stop in the middle of the garage.
The jeep’s top was down.
A quick weather check on my phone showed only a ten percent chance of storms. It was a go.
I threw the box on the jeep’s floor, the bills on the passenger seat, and jumped in. Five minutes later, I was flying down Bay Ridge Road toward the strip mall. It was a beautiful evening. Perfect for a ride with the top down.
Crap.
Almost perfect.
Half the stack of bills just blew out.
Fortunately, just ahead was the strip mall with the overnight express place. I made a hard right into the parking lot, slammed the jeep into a space, and chased after the escapees. Hurtling up the sidewalk, my eyes scanned the road in a desperate search for the envelopes.
A piece of white paper blew up in the air after a dump truck roared past. As it settled back onto the asphalt, I realized it wasn’t paper. It was an envelope. And three others were scattered around it.
I stood at the ready on the side of the road, gauging the distance to the envelopes, waiting for the traffic light one block up to change. When it did, I bolted into the street and gathered them up, all the while keeping a watchful eye out for traffic. It would really suck if I rescued the bills right before a cement truck flattened me.
With the envelopes firmly in hand, I charged back to the sidewalk and up the road to the jeep. Jumping in, I whipped the vehicle around and rocketed through the parking lot toward the overnight express place. As I neared, it appeared they were still open because a small line of people was inside. I parked outside the store and raced inside with the box and envelopes.
I was fourth in line. While waiting, I examined the rescued envelopes. Heavy black tire tracks covered the back of three, but the fronts were unmarred. However, the fourth’s address was defaced to the point I was going to have to remail it. Good thing it was only the mortgage and not the Internet bill.
A loud annoyed voice cut through the air. “What’s this? A copy?”
I looked up. A crazy-looking guy at the front of the line was waving a piece of paper around. He wore a bright yellow Hawaiian shirt, military-style green shorts, and flaming red sandals. Scraggly gray hair went in every direction but over his bald spot. Sunglasses were perched on his forehead above eyeglasses.
“No sir,” replied the counter clerk. “That’s yours.”
“My what?” he barked.
The clerk hesitated. “The paper you brought in.”
I glanced out the store’s front window. It was getting dark, but it wasn’t quite seven. Not good.
“Why didn’t you fax this?” Glasses Guy snapped, shaking the paper at the clerk. “I told you to fax this.”
“I did, sir.”
More waving of the paper. “Uh, no you didn’t.”
“Sir, I did. The receipt is the second page I gave you.”
Glasses Guy read the second page. “So, this is a copy.”
“No, sir, that’s your original.”
“Then you didn’t fax it,” Glasses Guy yelled. “If this is my original, you couldn’t have faxed it.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, sir. I sent your fax and gave you the receipt. Please step to the side. Next please?”
Glasses Guy didn’t budge. “Clearly I’m dealing with a simpleton.”
Another nervous glance outside.
Lightning flashed as the heavens opened up.
I could barely make out the jeep in the monsoon.
****
I will leave you with this. The next time you’re reading a book and you come across an unusual scene, think about me and Glasses Guy because there is a better-than-decent chance the author was drawing on a real-life experience. You just never know with authors.