Dalton part 2

Published by Rousel in the blog Rousel's blog. Views: 93

5 hrs into my trip I stopped off at this small town called White Haven. I picked this exit simply because I needed gas for the suv. Pulling into the gas station I get out and begin filling ritual of my o-zone killer. Along side of me is a silver minivan with a handful of young ones sitting inside. Cute little rascals they were. They were not unattended; it appeared that they had a caring older sister in her early teens keeping an eye on them.

My phone beeps and catches my attention. An incoming call from what looks like another fellow writer I had a coffee date with earlier today. I obviously forgot but I needed to come up with a good cover story. I’m sure telling him that I was on a chase for the guy that wrote my story for me years ago wouldn’t do anything for my image in the community. “Scott Dalton.” I say as I pick up the phone call. I chit chat this guy for a few minutes to find out he was apologizing for not showing up to our coffee date. Only of the guy knew. While talking to him I noticed the parent of the van full of offspring was by the pump. She was gowned in almost all black from head to toe. She even had one of those Muslim Hijeb deals on. She was looking at me, and then she would look away and look at me out of the corner of her eye.

I hung up on my friend as I felt the pump disengage. My suv was full and ready for more trekking. “Excuse me sir?” I hear as I begin to round the nose of my vehicle. I look over at the woman clad in black attire peering at me from around the pump. “Yes?” I asked.
“Scott Dalton? The Writer?” she asks stepping around the pump.
Thinking about the question she asked for a second, I didn’t want to answer ‘yes’. I didn’t quite feel like a writer, more like a thief. But then again telling her that I’m Scott Dalton the thief probably wouldn’t be the best idea.

“Yes ma am, that’s me.” I answered as I put on the plastic fake grin on my face
“The Writer of Final Gambit?” she asks.
It honestly felt like someone was stabbing me in the gut over and over again when she asked. Normally I loved the attention but knowing that it’s not my story, it feels wrong.
“Yep, that would be me.” I said with a smile on my face.
“Really? I’m such a big fan of your work Scott!” she erupts with excitement.
Again, my work? All I can do is get this woman off of my case as soon as possible so I don’t end up driving off a bridge out of shame and disgust of myself.
“Really? Thanks! I didn’t know I had fans way out here in the Poconos.” I remarked
“Oh yes, you sure do!” she says laughing. Cute laugh, not going to lie.
“What brings you way out here?” she asks tilting her head in question
“You’ll never believe me even if I told ya'.” I said walking a little closer
“Promise to keep a secret?” I ask playfully.
She shakes her head in excitement with the thought that I’m really going to tell her a secret. Little does she know, she just became my therapist for the moment.
“I’m looking for the real writer of The Final Gambit, see I just stole story.” I said with a grin
She busted out laughing. The joke was on her, I didn’t lie.
“You’re a funny guy Mr. Dalton.” She says in mid laugh.
I begin to laugh hoping it would make me feel at least a little better. Laughing is medicine to some people. Always wondered if I was one of those people.
“I try to have a sense of humor.” I added as I walked to her with my hand extended.
Our hands clasped and I felt her soft skin on mine. Firm grip for a woman.
“It was a pleasure, and always is a pleasure meeting a fan.” I state.
Looking over her sunglasses at me she smiles.
“Hey, it’s not every day I meet my favorite writer at a gas station in the middle of no were.”

After the exchange of good byes', I sat in my suv and wanted to cry. Not literally but the weight of this was really on me. I need to find this R.T. Colo and put my mind at ease.

Driving off I begin thinking of the conversation with the woman. I started to feel bad and made the discovery that laughing isn’t a medicine for me, nor is she a good therapist.
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