Bob Avey’s 3rd Quarter 2018
Once again I want to express my heartfelt thanks to my loyal readers, and to everyone, who has signed up for this crazy newsletter. The growth of the list continues to amaze me. 23 new readers have signed up since my last newsletter. I truly hope that you find enjoyment and entertainment from my books and newsletters. In appreciation, instead of the usual drawing-one-name-from-the-hopper thing for the free autographed copy, I will give the first five respondents an autographed copy of their choice – Chosen from one of my books of course – and all you have to do is answer a question correctly. What’s the question? I’m still thinking.
And now for something completely different:
It’s all about perception, isn’t it? One of the first things we learn – well some of us anyway – is that not everyone – nobody really – processes information the same way that we do. If you doubt that premise, engage someone in a conversation about politics. I can hear the groans already. Fear not, this has nothing to do with politics. Allow me to lead in a different direction. The theme of my first novel, Twisted Perception, is all about perception. Imagine that. The title didn’t just fall out of my head. On second thought, perhaps it did. However, I promised myself I wouldn’t ramble on with this, so let us dive in:
A few days ago, my wife and I pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store – too convenient actually – to do whatever it was, for which we pulled in, and while we were doing this, a pickup truck parked beside us. Stay with me, it’s good. The driver of the pickup was a somewhat normal male. However, the passenger was a deer, an actual deer with antlers and everything. We both laughed about the incident. However, while Kathi maintained that it was nothing more than a victim of taxidermy, and just the head, I saw it quite differently. There was an entire deer in that truck, legs, hooves, antlers, and all. I couldn’t tell if the deer was wearing his seatbelt or not, but he didn’t appear to be conscious, a victim of foul play at any rate.
Perhaps this will serve as a better example. A few nights ago, Kathi and I arrived home from work ready to settle in for an evening of rest and recuperation only to have it eventually disrupted. It shouldn’t surprise me. It seems to be one crises – of some magnitude – after another at our house. After dinner, I attempted to settle into my recliner, only to be reminded by our son David that the lawn needed to be mowed. He was right of course. While pulling from the garage that morning, I’d thought I’d seen someone traversing the front yard with a machete. I relented, but on the way out the front door, I tripped over a small, brown object. Upon further examination, I found the obstruction to be a box of coffee, which I’d ordered just that morning. Worrying about Amazons and drones, and after pushing a lawn mower in the Oklahoma heat for thirty or forty minutes, I crawled into the house to take a shower.
“I’m out of Doctor Pooper,” David said.
“Can’t we get it tomorrow?” I asked.
Kathi quickly drew me aside. “It can’t wait,” she said. “If David is left here all day tomorrow with no Doctor Pooper, he will drink all of my Poopsie. And let’s not forget about tonight. Without Doctor Pooper, he’ll demand watching Highway through Purgatory as retribution.”
“I see your point,” I said. Not being able to bear the thought of having to watch back-to-back episodes of Canadians, dragging busted trucks through the snow, I drove my sweaty self to the Dollar Shack to get the needed supplies. I love Canada, and the people there are beautiful, but a person can only take so much of that, eh?
Having successfully maneuvered the exhausting trip, I walked into the house and plopped my prize down upon the kitchen island, only to be greeted by Kathi frowning and shaking her head. I whipped my attention around and observed the packaged soft drinks: sitting on the counter was the familiar reddish-brown carton with the same stylish lettering written across it. There was only one glaring problem. Instead of Doctor Pooper, it read, Doctor Popper. In my haste to finish the chore and return home, I’d mistakenly purchased a cheap knockoff. Fearing the wrath of Dave, and being quick on her feet, Kathi quickly stated, “I’ve heard about this. It’s brand new on the market. Everyone at work is talking about it.”
David eagerly guzzled down a can of the Popper. “Hey, this is pretty good,” He said.
That weekend, during our weekly Mega Mart shopping spree, David, looking rather haggard and frazzled, met us at the checkout. “I can’t find the Doctor Popper,” he said.
“That’s okay,” I said. “We’ll swing by the Dollar Shack on our way home and stock up.”
As it turned out, my daughter, Karen, had ordered the coffee for me as a Father’s Day gift, so I guess we’re safe from immediate drone-danger.
And by the way, if you’re out and about and run across any Doctor Popper, please send it to us. It seems the Dollar Shack is the only store that stocks it. I’m just kidding. Not about the stuff being rare and hard to find, but about sending it to us.
Oh yes, the question is: At the beginning of chapter two of Twisted Perception, what does Detective Elliot perceive to be the problem?
Just email your answer to email@example.com
Thanks and good luck.
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This article was written by Bob Avey, author of Twisted Perception, Beneath a Buried House, and Footprints of a Dancer. http://www.bobavey.com