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Paul's Brass Balls

Paul's Brass Balls

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What every aspiring author needs, Chapter from Living Novel NO HARD FEELINGS
What every aspiring author needs, Chapter from Living Novel NO HARD FEELINGS

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Published by: David Arthur Walters on Sep 28, 2013
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10/26/2013

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NO HARD FEELINGS 
–    
A NOVEL 
 
Page
1
of 
4
 
PAUL
’S BRASS BALLS
 by David Arthur WaltersJust what a best-selling author needs.The Peculier Pub is famous for its hundreds of brands of beer. When PaulBowman entered the pub, there sat Senior and Junior guzzling Weissebier,frequently chased with shots of Sambuci, for which Kamikazes were soonsubstituted. Senior immediately befriended Paul, to the drunken extent that Paulcounted his lucky stars the next painful day for getting home to Brooklyn alive in acab that seemed to be careening like a toboggan on wheels, spiraling around anendless section of sewer pipe to nowhere.When Paul met Senior, who was obviously a wealthy man, he had a weird hunchthat he had encountered by chance or by the deliberate machinations of Providence the patron and mentor who would recognize his talents and skills,who would see him as the national treasure he was, and who would free him towork in the most artistic of fashions. Paul had that same feeling he sometimeshad when he heard the right song playing just before he turned on a radio.
 
NO HARD FEELINGS 
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"Tell me about yourself, " Senior ordered, "Where do you come from and what doyou do?""I'm from a small town out West. I was a business executive there, but quit my joband came to New York to write and to dance. I've been writing to amuse myself for a long time, but I've just begun to dance and I really like it.""Hey, I like you. You've got brass balls! Say, meet my son, here. He's an award-winning film maker," Senior stated matter-of-factly, then tossed back anothershot. Junior had been staring at his beer glass; he looked up with a countenancethat said, "Here we go again, Dad's hooked another one," and offered Paul a limphand to shake."Like I said, you've got brass balls to come here out of the blue like that. Well, atleast you came to the right place. What are you working on now?" Senior asked."I've just completed a series of articles about dance in New York City.""Where is your work? I want to see it now," Senior leaned over and leered at Paul."You give it to me and I'll tell you what, if I like it I'll back you up.""I don't have copies with me," Paul said, as if that were the end of it. He felt likehe was on the verge of winning a jackpot, yet he did not want to blow it byseeming too eager. But he had no reason for reticence."Look, look here, look, uh, what did you say your name was?" Senior was well intohis cups by now, his head lolling about, but he managed to stay in command."Paul. Paul Bowman.""Look here, Paul Bowman," Senior ordered, now staring at Paul's face, "if yourstuff is as good as you seem to be, I'm going to back you up. Understand?""Yes," Paul felt his heart thumping at the prospects."You send your stuff to John Wilson, Senior, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, zip code,zip code, oh what the hell, just send it along to me. Everybody knows me."
 
NO HARD FEELINGS 
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A NOVEL 
 
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"What street is that?""Never mind that. Here, better yet, I'll be at this steel company when I get backfrom Nashville," Senior declared, handing Paul a card he had extracted from his jacket pocket. "You just send it there. and send my boy a copy too. Son, give, uh,Paul here your address. My boy's an art critic you know, and if he says your stuff isgood, you're in like flint. Say, where do you live?""Brooklyn.""Brooklyn!" shouted Senior incredulously. "What in hell's name are you doingthere?""A lot of talent has come from Brooklyn," Paul offered defensively."Yeah, sure, FROM Brooklyn. All bad roads lead TO Brooklyn, or to New Jersey.You're an oddball with brass balls and, I tell you, you should be living in theVillage. I'll tell you what, you ready for another beer?""Sure.""Give the man a beer, and shots all around here." Senior ordered again. "Whatwas I saying? Yes, whether I like your stuff or not, and don't you send me any shit,if you want to live in the Village, I'll put you up in the Village. That's the least I cando."Paul's heart joyfully skipped a beat at Senior's offer, for he had been hoping thatby some stroke of good fortune in the throes of his poverty that he would beremoved to the Village for good. That is where he took his dance classes forseveral hours each day, and where he was making so many warm-hearted friendslike Senior.Yes, Paul mused over his seventh beer, Yes, while living in the Village, I will writeand dance with my head and my feet in harmony, my spirit unhampered bydismal rides to the transit system's worst stop, a nauseating cavern whereunprepossessing vagrants slumber in the reeking scent of urine at one foot of the

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