Good Morning, Meltdown: Animal Style and All-Nighters
Part 2: Between a sick neighbor, a projectile-vomiting dog, and a "booty call" from her ex, reading becomes a race against time.
Life provides its own bit of entertainment, and I try to capture the conflict and joy that arise from what we experience every day. My stories offer a brief respite from this crazy life, and I hope you enjoy them. There’s something new every Friday.
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Piano Man is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors.
(Read Part 1. Check out The Piano Man Chronicles)
Part 2:
Veronica had a plan.
Veronica stepped into her Marina District apartment, resolved. She had no distractions. How could one when the living space cost too much and was more like a closet with a stovetop? It was 4 p.m., and the small sliver of sunlight peeking through the blinds revealed the status of her life. She groaned. The dishes, some with caked-on rice and peas, remained in her sink. A load of laundry was currently earning squatter’s rights on the chair where she had planned to read. She was in a room of her own disappointment, one that had taken on a life of its own since she broke up with her boyfriend, Jeff, a week ago.
But nope, she’d deal with her self-pity tomorrow. Priority Number One right now was reading “Piano Man,” the latest novel by Thomas Eberle, writing a synopsis, and preparing questions for Good Morning Bay Area host Tammy Waterston in her segment with Eberle. It was time to own up that she’d put off poring over the novel because of her breakup. And now she had eleven hours to read and send the questions.
Veronica checked the clock on the opposite wall. Strike that. Now it was 4:30 p.m. She had ten hours and thirty minutes until 3 am, when Tammy would be up and checking her email to prepare for the telecast. Even the clock, with its out-of-place faux-wood frame and parchment-colored paper and Roman Numerals, turned her thoughts toward Jeff. She’d bought it with Jeff a year ago. It was ugly then – a cheap replica of something you’d see in a 19th-century library – but she compromised. Now, she hated it.
Dealing with this breakup had been more complicated than she thought. When he came to her a week ago to admit he had cheated on her and was moving out, she felt a bottomless pit in her stomach. Her intuition was accurate. True, they’d talk about marriage and their futures. But come to think of it, she had talked about it more than he. He only nodded in the affirmative. What a fraud he was to lead her on. What an idiot she was to let him.
It was all that she could do to get out of bed every morning. And now she was expected to read this novel, which satirized the lives of young, wealthy adults in San Francisco. She didn’t need a book to tell Veronica that her life was fucked.
I will put on a pot of coffee, eat horribly, and knock this read out. Veronica knew from the press kit that the audio version of the book, read by Zach Efron, took 9.5 hours. If she read it straight through, she’d get it done in eight hours. If she skimmed parts of it, she might get that time down to six to seven. Plenty of time. She might even manage to get a few hours of sleep.
But first, she needed something to eat. Her fridge was as depressing as her relationship status. A bag of lettuce, the color of mulch and the consistency of sludge, was in her crisper drawer, alongside an orange that sagged like a deflated balloon. She didn’t dare shake the carton of milk or remember what that mound of aluminum foil was. As it was every night last week, it was DoorDash. Forty minutes and several TikTok reels later, she decided on a burrito bowl from Chipotle for the cost of a small automobile but with less favorable financing terms.
OK, twenty minutes until delivery. She didn’t want the delivery to disrupt her reading, so Veronica scooped four scoops of dark-roast grounds into the coffee maker to brew a pot. She also put on her pajamas. Now, she was ready. She was efficient. By the time she washed her face and got ready, her delivery driver was there, and she had given up hope that a delivery driver would rescue her. OK, she had eight hours until Tammy woke up and expected those questions. She might pull an all-nighter, but it was Thursday. She’d sleep this weekend.
She had her burrito bowl. And cracked open the book and read the first chapter. Eberle was a brilliant writer. Could she write a novel like this or like Voyage to Victoria? Probably not. What was his background again? She looked at the press kit. He went through a divorce. His wife cheated on him, too. He was also fairly attractive, though he was ten or fifteen years older than her. Well, she already told herself that he was more mature than Jeff ever was. She clicked onto Facebook and Instagram for research on Eberle.
OK, that was a waste of 20 minutes. The press kit gave Veronica more insight than anything else, though she liked Thomas Eberle more and more. Onto Chapter Two, and then three. She had her notebook open, jotting down notes.
Veronica poured herself a cup of coffee and found comfort in the fleece blanket her mother gave her when she moved to college. This wasn’t so bad. Yes, she wanted more breaking news. She wanted to be a producer for a regional network. She wanted to be part of the action, not morning-show drivel. But reading a novel in her living room wrapped in a blanket was certainly more comfortable than covering a blizzard in the Midwest. She wrapped herself in the blanket more. Didn’t she just read this page?
The knock startled her. She tried to ignore it and get back to the book. She reread the page before another knock. Veronica grunted in frustration. She threw off the blanket and strode to the door. It was her elderly neighbor, Livy. She was nice enough, but her yippy Shih Tzu was more effective than an alarm clock, waking her on weekends and precisely at 7:12 a.m.
“Oh, Veronica,” Livy said, visibly upset. She was holding Oscar. His white coat was stained with a mustard-yellow goo. “I hate to bother you after 10, but Oscar got a hold of something. He’s sick.”
Veronica was sympathetic, but it took her a moment to process the time. She looked at the clock on the wall. 10:30 p.m. Had she fallen asleep in the chair for two hours? Panic made her neck tight and heightened her frustration with this latest interruption.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Livy,” Veronica said. “Have you called the vet?”
“Yes, and I need to take Oscar to the emergency,” she said. “But I’m too upset to drive. I hate to be a bother, but can you drive me?”
“Is there anyone else to drive you?” Veronica asked. “I’ve got a work project I have to get done.”
“Not really. Mr. Johnson is away. And Dustin is drunk. The Sampsons have those twin babies. I guess I could ask them.”
Veronica considered the evil looks she’d get across the complex if she forced Livy to ask the Sampsons to drive her to the veterinary hospital room so she could read a book. Her conscience and her reputation wouldn’t allow her to make the selfish choice, though the chair and the blanket were making strong arguments. She could take the book and read it there. She’d just tell Livy she had to read.
“Okay, I’ll take you, but I have to read a book in the waiting room. Is that fine?” Veronica said.
“Oh, thank you,” Livy said, relief spreading across her face. “And yes, of course, I’m just so thankful you can drive me.”
Veronica asked Livy to meet her by the car while she gathered a few things. She grabbed the book. She was on Page 54 of 302. She would need to start skimming. Sigh. She poured another cup of coffee into a travel mug.
On the drive to the vet, Veronica knew this was the right thing to do. Her mother would be proud. But it didn’t help when Oscar projectile vomited from Livy’s lap all over the dashboard. One positive? It dripped onto an old In-N-Out bag. Talk about “animal style.” Livy didn’t appreciate the subtle irony. Nor did she apologize. She just started crying.
“Oh, Oscar,” she said. “We’re going to get you better.”
At the vet, while Livy took Oscar to the front desk, Veronica found a chair and opened the book. She wouldn’t fall asleep here. The waiting room was a fluorescent nightmare and one dark hue and a tense soundtrack away from a horror movie. Still, she found it difficult to focus with her neighbor in distress. It took her minutes to get through a couple of pages while she watched Livy explain the situation to the front desk assistant. When Livy sat next to Veronica, Veronica grabbed her elderly neighbor’s hand as she read.
While Livy whimpered, Veronica struggled to hold back chuckles from the entertaining passages. This book was funny. The chain-smoking Snow White flirting with the dad at the princess party was priceless. She was skimming more than she wanted to, but at this point, she was working against the clock, which now read 11:16. She had about three hours to finish and write the copy for Tammy.
The vet came out with Oscar, and Livy rushed over. Veronica closed the book – she was halfway done now – and joined them.
“Nothing too bad,” the vet said. “She got into some chocolate, which is toxic for these little guys. Thankfully, we were able to take care of the issue, and he’ll be tired, but he’ll be fine.”
“Oh, thank you,” Livy said through her tears of relief and hugged him. She hugged Veronica, then took her dog and pressed her face against his. “Oh, Oscar, I couldn’t live without you,” Livy said to Oscar. “No, I couldn’t. Veronica and I were scared for you.”
Veronica smiled, and after completing the paperwork, they were on their way back to the apartment building. Veronica felt like an anonymous Uber driver, only counted on to get Livy and Oscar back to their destination. Veronica understood, but she felt a bit underappreciated, like she did with this job. Was she stressing over a book?
When they parked again, Livy got out with Oscar and finally acknowledged her.
“Thank you, Veronica,” Livy said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. And I’m so sorry he got sick in your car. Let me know if you need any money to clean it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Veronica said, already rushing up to the apartment to read. She’d clean up the car tomorrow.
She closed the door, threw her bag on the coffee table, and collapsed on the couch. No need to be comfortable now. She needed to get down to business. She was about halfway done. Cole, the main character, was going through an existential crisis. Veronica wondered if this was based on a real person. A question to ask for sure. If it were based on someone real, she wouldn’t object to doing a follow-up and meeting this Sam.
She spent too much time playing out the fantasy. Back to the book. At 1 a.m. She was getting through it. She could get this done. Nobody would know that she waited until the last moment.
Her phone buzzed, and “Jeff” showed up on the screen. Just what she needed. She should have deleted his contact when he left her. She hadn’t even changed the picture. It was Jeff at his cutest. His tongue was out in a flirty way, and his eyes matched. That look, along with the fantasy of Sam, intrigued her. Against her better judgment, she answered.
“What?” Veronica asked. Yes, she picked up, but she had to convey her annoyance.
“Hey,” Jeff asked. His voice was low and gravelly – another trait she loved. A few weeks ago, she would allow herself to feel tingly. Well, she still did, but she wasn’t admitting it.
“I’ve got stuff to do. Is everything ok?”
“I was just thinking about you.”
“Well, you were the one who left, so…”
“I know. I’m not sure if I should have.”
Well, this was something new. He regretted breaking up with her? Still, she wouldn’t give in.
“That was your choice.”
“I know. I miss you. I mean, I think of the good times we had… the sexy times we had…” Jeff followed with a moan, and it took her back to the crazy sex they’d had on this couch. She shook her head back out of fantasy land.
“Jeff, is this a booty call?”
“Well, I mean, if you wanted to get together for old times’ sake. We could have some fun.”
The balloon popped. The sobriety of the present, of dog puking in her car, of this book assignment, replaced the longing she felt a moment earlier.
“I can’t deal with this. I’ve got work to do,” she said and hung up. She didn’t have time. She would put it off, just like everything else, and deal with it later. She poured back into the book.
2 a.m. now, and she had 50 pages left. The book was excellent. What would Cole do with his life? Would he give up all the fun and sex he’d had for his dream? Why was he doing this job? She wondered about it too. What was she doing? Was she sacrificing the present for an unsure future?
At 2:34 and fueled by coffee and the adrenaline of staring down the deadline, she typed the opening copy and questions for Tammy. She poured over her background notes, brought forth the social media posts she visited hours – had it only been hours? – before and finally pushed upload to the system at 2:54 a.m.
Veronica pushed back from her desk and looked up at the ceiling. In six minutes, her alarm would go off, and she’d get ready for her final shift of the week. She’d need to power through and then deal with her life this weekend. But maybe this was the point. There are no breaks from life. She’d need to deal with things as they happened.
At 2:56, an email from Tammy
Wow, nothing like waiting until the last minute to get these notes to me. But thank you. These look great. Wasn’t that book awesome? We’ll go over everything. See you in a bit.
Another day, another dollar.
About The Piano Man Chronicles
Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.
Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.
Guest authors, such as Sandolore Sykes, are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.
The Birthday Party Underground
When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.
Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.
But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?
Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.
“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”
— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore
“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”
— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic
“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”
— The Sacramento Tribune
If you’re tasting the Salted Wetzel for the first time…
Welcome! I’m Vince Wetzel, author of FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES (2021), the award-winning LOSE YOURSELF (2024), and a third novel currently in that precarious editing phase of unreadable and mildly entertaining. This newsletter is my literary sandbox, emotional junk drawer, and occasional cry for help disguised as content. It features short fiction, fridge philosophies (you know, the good quotes you see someone important said and you wish you had come up yourself), interviews with authors who are far more interesting than I am, and random thoughts, reviews, and side bits that didn’t make it into my books because they were either too weird or too honest.
I’m a husband, father, and California dweller who enjoys falling asleep to televised sports that move slower than my writing process. I read compulsively, enjoy touring the brewery scene with my buddies, and occasionally pretend I understand world events.
If you’re looking for polished wisdom or life hacks, you’re in the wrong inbox. But if you enjoy fiction with bite, musings with heart, and the kind of humor that masks deep existential dread—pull up a chair. I promise not to overshare. (That’s a lie.)
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