Doesn’t EVERY BOOK START With Chapter 35?
Waiting on the inbound side of the elevated platform for the next train, [Jimmy] whistled Jingle Bell Rock. He was in such a good mood Christmas could have been next week. He had a great story to bring to the bar at last.
The Orange line train rattled into Mass. Ave. Station, swirling papers and trash before it on the tracks, as the sloping winter sun painted its last gold touches on the aging brownstones and slushy streets below. Jimmy stuffed the Herald into the trashcan and boarded the last car, his mind made up to call his brother with an excuse. He could always see his nephew play basketball. The kid would be disappointed, but Don Bosco High wasn’t that great this year anyway. What couldn’t wait was the crowd at Sully’s.
––from To The Next Home Run, Chapter 35
Some years ago I was attacked by a gang of teenaged boys on the stairs of an elevated transit station in Boston. Long afterward, I remained mystified by the inaction of the token collector who had heard it all and could have come to my rescue. What kind of person remained inside a booth, pretending to hear nothing, while a crime took place a few yards away? He could have locked the booth behind him to protect the T’s revenues and intervened. He could have called the police. He could have yelled in hopes of scaring them off. He did nothing.
I decided to breathe life into my memory of the man and see what he had to say for himself. I named him Jimmy Rourke and began a short story (entitled “The Token Collector,” published in Short Story America, Volume VII) but the brief glimpse into his daily life revealed too little and left me unsatisfied. So, I kept on writing about Jimmy. Eventually, he sprouted legs and took off on a journey for his soul ––with me in tow. A garrulous sort, he dragged me all sorts of places, introducing me to friends and family, acquaintances and enemies, revealing himself over time. The original short story grew to novella length.
By writing about Jimmy I came to understand a version of that man and to have a great deal of empathy for his life. I’m no psychologist, but I’ve discovered a handy prescription to help solve Life’s puzzles: to place myself inside people or situations that elude me, and write from that place until their “why” becomes clear.
But, back to the fictional token collector: as his story took me through the city’s neighborhoods, I bumped into more fascinating people. Not all connected to Jimmy––some did in consequential ways, others in tangential ways––– but all served the outcome. Jimmy is still at the heart of the book, but these additional characters lent even more dimension to the setting (Boston) and the era (1960’s-1980’s) in which it takes place: the alliances and enmities, attitudes and assumptions, ethnic territories and class divides. Jimmy’s story became part of the larger tale of a city––(my apologies to Mr. Dickens).
To the Next Home Run was now a full-length novel. Jimmy’s earlier years became the opening of the book. The 1700-or-so words that started the whole thing settled in as Chapter 35, and the puzzle pieces all fell into place.
And then there’s THE ENDING…I can’t wait to share it with you.