Blar, Harrumf and Woo-Hoo

There's a man at the hotel (where I pass the time between paychecks,) who uses the expression "Woo-Hoo" endlessly. He is tan, horribly so. His skin has the sort of shiny, stained quality that happens when you've never even seen a bottle of sun screen. Darker than a well oiled, oven roasted turkey. And he stands at my counter chatting most evenings that I work. Woo-Hoo.

He bought a Tiffany bracelet for a former guest of our hotel. He brought it to me, to try it on before he shipped it to her overseas. We're about the same size, you see, this young woman and I. Woo-Hoo.

As the heavy gold links dangled from my wrist, I squinted down at the diamond tennis-balls, set neatly between the two solid gold tennis rackets. A charm bracelet for a princess. I told him it's far too expensive of a gift, for a loved one, let alone someone living on the other side of the Atlantic who barely ranks above casual acquaintance.

No matter. Good things for good people, he told me.

I think about him when I get home, not because he has taught me any sort of life lesson, but because he is, essentially, a character. I couldn't have dreamed up such a quirky individual. A once-upon-a-time minor league baseball player who walked away from the game for a woman. Twenty years and four nearly grown kids with his soon-to-be ex-wife, and a house fire later, he's now living in a hotel, imparting his life's wisdom on the captive audience of the desk staff and buying $2500 charm bracelets for near strangers. Woo-hoo.

And that's just the tip of it.

Such glorious fodder for fiction. Any single thread from the tapestry of my encounters with him could be wound around my fingertips as I type out a fictional masterpiece.

Yet, I'm not typing.

I've got a couple of stories "in progress" - one finished and awaiting revision, the other sitting about half way done, abandoned for over a week, probably wondering if it's been left for dead at this point.

Now that I'm working (more), writing has become (more) like working. The only difference being that I feel guilty when I don't accomplish enough writing, whereas I can go for hours distracting myself at the office and never even consider it as I'm wrestling to get my mind to surrender to sleep at night.

I'm groggy lately too, so that probably has something to do with it. It being this ho-hum feeling of meh when I should be writing.

I'm hoping that our upcoming vacation rejuvenates me. At the very least, it will be over a week of not waking up at 6AM with my son demanding crackers and juice. And maybe that's enough.