THE MISFIT UNIT: 1) PARADISE

MY Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

Weekends are for leisure reading. As in fiction.

Once upon a time such leisure reading was a staple of American life and culture, best embodied by the Saturday Evening Post, which dates back to 1821 when its earliest editions were printed in Benjamin Franklin’s printshop.

From the 1920s through the 1960s, “America’s Magazine,” as it was known, reached two million homes every weekend. The Post was revered for short stories and literary serials, along with its cover illustrations of classic Americana by Norman Rockwell.

In that spirit, here is my own Saturday evening post: An espionage novel titled The Misfit Unit.

Meet Jeff Dalkin, an investigative consultant who looks exactly like Bruce Willis and suffers (no, enjoys) Tourette’s syndrome. Consequently, if you can’t handle salty language, check out.

1.

Jeff Dalkin swigs a dry martini and peruses the Los Angeles Times. 

Garbed in cut-offs, t-shirt, Oakley shades and a khaki baseball cap that says Hot Dog on a Stick, he looks the spitting image of Bruce Willis with his near-shaven head and ever-present smirk. 

Dalkin does not rush to answer his cell phone, which is chirping, but puts it to his ear on ring four. "Yeah-what?"

"Is that you?"

Dalkin grimaces in recognition of the gruff voice belonging to assistant FBI director R. James Cloverland.  "No."

"Then who is it?"

"Someone else."

Silence.

"All right," Dalkin finally squawks.  "So it's me.  Whattaya want?"

 "How are you?"

"Unruly."

"As usual. Where are you?"

"Paradise."

"Where?"

"It's a bar on Anacapa."

"Is that anywhere near Washington?"

"It's somewhere very far from Washington—wanking willies."

"Can you come to Washington?"

"Why the hell would I want to do that?  I hate Washington—wanking willies."

"Then I'm coming there," says Cloverland.   "Where's Anacapa?"

"You're the F-F... flat-heeled barnacles of ineptitude… whew!  FBI.  You figure it out."  Dalkin unpowers his phone and slaps it down on the bar.  "I should-a moved to Tahiti," he mutters. "Tits and tally-whacking."