chapter three: black lake (put to rest)

I've finished the rough first draft of the novel and am now going back through the chapters chronologically and giving them one last look, and then I'm putting them into a three-ring binder that doesn't open very easily and that's that until I make my way to "The End."

Chapter three is the first chapter of the story, and I just stuck it in the three-hole punch last night. I'll probably read it at the next soup salon, but I'm forcing myself to not look at it anymore, not fix it, change it, fuck it up anymore.

Just for fun, here's the first and last sentences of the chapter. First:

The trailerpark I grew up in used to be nothing but old people and one Cuban guy named Marco Valdés who escaped from Communism when he was seventeen years old on a raft he made out of milk jugs and yarn.

And the last:

Mama ranted on at least until I was asleep; Brenda cried and so did I. Lot number four was a trailerhome full of people feeling sorry for themselves that night and for many nights to come.

(painting: "Black Lake," Milton Avery, 1893-1965)