Anyone Want to Come Yachting?

We’ve been betting against each other for years. Mike won a car from Sid, Pete won a cruise to the Caribbean Islands from Dave, I put in a bid for Jason’s wife - but it was shouted down; 

“That’s against the rules, Andy! What if you won? You’d take his wife home with you?”

Every time we meet we have these crazy sessions. We’re all young and well-off. All made big money on the stock exchange, casinos, and other places where normal people fear to tread. We like spending our money and we enjoy gambling with it.

I’m the youngest in the group - 32 to be exact. Single and rolling in dough. Won a small fortune on a Lotto ticket a few years ago. Gambled the entire amount on a stock on the exchange and converted it to a large fortune. These days I gamble and bet but I’ve stashed away enough for the rest of my life. I play only with money I don’t need. I’m open to phone calls, introductions and blind dates.

I’ve become a writer. I don’t need to work anymore. But I do need to keep myself occupied, especially the brain part, so I decided to write.

At the moment I’m nearing the end of a long letter to my grandson. He hasn’t been born yet but this will be waiting for him when he arrives. The strange part about writing is that I’ve grown to love it. It allows me to put my wild imagination to use. It lets me confide in the computer keyboard. And I can write what I like. Articles to magazines and papers. Essays about events in my life. Romantic stuff. Political junk. Anything at all. Sometimes I sign my name. Sometimes not.

A little over a year ago, when the level of the single malt whisky in the bottle was low, a discussion in our little ‘club’, took place. A new Leopold Chilli thriller had just been released and was causing quite a storm among his fans.

“It’s great! His best yet!”

“It’s a disgrace! He must have dashed it off when he was smashed!”

“I loved it. Not his best, but it’s a real thriller.”“He’s a fool! Ruining his reputation like this!”

And I said, “I agree. It’s not very good. I could have done better myself. He probably bashed it out in a year.”

“Aha!” said Mike. “I forgot you’re a writer, Andy. Reckon you can beat that?”

“I’m sure,” I said

“Okay,” said Dave. “Gentlemen we have a new bet – our best yet! We are going to lock Andy and his laptop in a room for one year. He has to write a complete thriller in that time. We will manage food, bathroom visits, telephone calls, laundry, etc. The bet, gentlemen, is a yacht. A fifty-footer, fully equipped.

Mike, can we use the basement at your place. I remember that room downstairs. It’s ideal. Plus it’s close to all amenities. What say you?”

“Um, okay. But he stays away from my wife, right?”Loud laughter.

“Okay!” I said loudly. “I’ll be there tomorrow at 9 am. I’ll bring my own coffee mix.”

I arrived on time. Mike followed me into the basement room, left me and closed the door. I heard the key turn. Nice guys, my friends!

I warmed up my fingers and set to work. The hardest part of this challenge was to decide on a story and then write it. A respectable book needs to be about 300,000 words. If I type at the rate of 1,000 per day it would mean 300 days. Given off-days, holidays and sick days, a year.

A theme? Something I’ve thought about for years. These ATM machines. Hundreds, if not thousands of people have tried to rip them off. Hundreds, if not thousands of people are still trying, but they haven’t pulled out a dime. No one, not a single person, including members of the hi-tech crowd, has succeeded in grabbing the green stuff.

My plan is less sophisticated, low-tech in fact. I hire or steal or borrow an excavating machine for a night. That’s it. I then drive up to an ATM, turn so that the bucket thing in the front faces the ATM, put the machine in first and drive forward as though I’m going to fetch sand or stone or whatever else buildings are made of.

I wedge the shovel thing under the ATM, wiggle the front end as though I’m shaking off any remaining sand, keep going until the ATM is in the bucket. Then I put the excavator into reverse. I back out until I can turn around and then I take off down the street. At some isolated place I dump the ATM, wipe my fingerprints off everything, return the excavator to where it belongs and go home to sleep and dream of newfound riches. Come morning and after the second cup of coffee I stroll down to where my ATM awaits, open it, remove all the green paper and head home for my third coffee. Easy job, right?

Now to write it. This part’s not so easy.

Chapter 1

“I’m sitting in this designer coffee shop, reading the paper, watching the crowd. A bright color across the street catches my eye and I follow a woman in a bright red coat with my eyes. She stops at an ATM machine built into the wall next to a shoe shop. She clicks buttons and when her wad of money appears she takes it, looks around nervously, and puts it in her purse. Then off she goes, swinging her purse.

My eyes stray back to the ATM machine. There must be a way of rescuing all that green money trapped inside, I think. My idle thoughts turn into an obsession. I come to this coffee shop every morning, pick up a paper, order 3 coffees and study the ATM. The days pass. Then weeks. Then it’s months and then a year.

I sit in that room, day after day, wracking my brain as I build the plot. Every few days I read what I’ve written and edit it. Make it more exciting and gripping. Delete what I think is poor stuff and replace it with modern up-to-date writing. I use the bathroom which is through a door in the room. There is a shower in there too. Food comes every day, arranged in a plastic dish with compartments. Meat here, veggies there and salads here. Like airline stuff. An occasional beer when someone from the gang drops in to see how I’m doing.

The book comes along, some days quickly, some days snagged on a point. A book project for a non-book author is a difficult job. I got involved in chapters and numbering. I made mistakes with the word speller. I forgot names so I had to create a file called ‘Characters’. Worst of all I made a mistake with a character. I killed him on page 87 and had him running around 63 pages further on. The guy was determined to get it on with a new secretary in the office and he not only ran out of control, he had me writing out of control. He died 5 chapters ago.

Before I knew it 9 months had passed while I was enjoying myself. Then 10 and then 11 months. Now members of the gang were lining up, anxious to see me lose the bet.  

It’s the twelfth month. 26 days to go. At least another 4 chapters to round it all up and make it into a real book. A good one too. I decided I didn’t want a fifty-foot yacht and I threw in the towel and came out of the room into blinding sunlight. The entire gang was waiting for me. Wine and beer flowed as failure but perseverance was honored. I received more congratulations than commiserations.

On the following Sunday, the gang walked me down to the marina and stood me in front of a shining white forty-footer with cream sails and purple racing stripes down the sides. Its name is ‘Andy’s Reward’.