The Wiggles of Fate: Full Story
In part 1 of 3, a creatively paralyzed author, stuck between deadlines and doubt, finds inspiration hiding in an ordinary afternoon.
Life provides its own bit of entertainment, and I try to capture the conflict and joy that comes out of what we experience every day. Some call this contemporary fiction or popular fiction. I just call it “comfort fiction” and what I like to write.
There’s something new every Friday. Enjoy and please subscribe! Check out my website at www.vincewetzel.com
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.
By Vince Wetzel
Copyright 2026 Vince Wetzel and OT Press
Part 1: The Elusive Muse
Raiders rule? Is that what was scratched in this tiny wooden desk? If Tom Eberle was going to stay here long term, he needed a writing space that wasn’t designed for a child. In fact, this entire room was not suitable for a serious novelist, which was what he was trying to be.
“The publisher wants to know what you’re thinking about next,” said Barry Donahoe, Tom’s agent. Barry had been on Tom’s case for nearly six months about his next book. The fact was that he was no closer today than he was six months ago. When Tom was presented with a two-book contract when selling his debut novel, The Voyage to Victoria, a novel about a man’s journey to maturity, he needed another idea to fulfill the obligation.
“I’m working on it, but nothing is inspiring me,” Tom said. That was true. The trouble with critical and commercial success in a debut novel that took ten years to write and make perfect is the pressure it puts on the follow-up in a compressed timeline. “I need more time.”
“I’ve been putting them off for two years,” Barry said. “I need at least an idea in the next week and a partial manuscript in a couple of months, or else they may hold you in breach of contract and cut you loose and ask for some of your advance back.”
Tom blew out his cheeks and eyed the Tom Brady poster hanging over the desk. That book advance was spent long ago, half of it somehow settled into the divorce, even though the first draft of The Voyage was completed in a manic three-writing session immediately after he had found out that his wife was cheating on him… with another woman.
“OK, I am looking at a modern-day retelling of the New Testament with a female Jesus,” Tom said. Anti-immigration sentiment and modern evangelical Christianity had made him imagine the Second Coming of Jesus as a female immigrant.
Barry wasn’t impressed. “Oh God. Controversy sells, but we can’t afford to have boycotts on your second novel. Anything else? Maybe, more commercial?”
“Does it have to be that way?”
“Selling books is the name of the game.”
“Great. Well, maybe I make it subversive, set it in Washington, D.C., and make it a political thriller,” I joked.
“Perfect,” Barry said, not in on the joke. “I’ll give them that pitch. Now, get to work on it. I’ll call in three weeks for an update.”
Tom hung up the phone and looked at his dog, Yoda – a crazy-eyed Chihuahua. Well, it was Jennifer’s dog, but she wanted rid of it and didn’t put up a fuss when he said he wanted it. Yoda, hyper as ever, ran around the chair two times before finding the right angle to jump up into his lap.
“Got any ideas?” Tom asked Yoda.
Yoda stared back. If there were any time for Yoda to give some syntax-challenged Muppet speak, this would be it. Tom didn’t want to write the story he had given Barry. He agreed. The subject was too heavy, too controversial, and too difficult to get right. There were reasons why the Bible hadn’t been adapted or rewritten. It was too big for him to start on a lark. But he needed an idea.
Tom looked at the refrigerator, saw the invitation to a fifth-birthday party for his childhood buddy Chris, and saw that his wife Becky was throwing it for their son Steven. It was at a park two miles from the house. He needed a good walk, so he took a light jacket and stepped out of his apartment in the Sunset district, heading toward Golden Gate Park. In June, this weather reminded him of Seattle: foggy, cold, and full of melancholy.
Tom was still settling back into his hometown, living in the house his mother had owned and died in three months ago, just around the time that his divorce was final. He needed out of Seattle and the life he occupied with Jennifer. So, taking care of his mother’s affairs and getting away from Jennifer was the universe aligning for him to get his life right. Still, he felt like a loser sleeping in his childhood single bed and the Daughtry poster he had in his room.
Nothing felt worse, though, than sitting at a coffee shop, writing the first draft of a novel, looking up and seeing your wife walking hand-in-hand with another woman. But then Tom watched Jennifer stop, take this woman into her arms, and give her a passionate kiss that he hadn’t had from her in months. When he confronted her, she didn’t even dispute it. In fact, she was relieved. It made leaving him that much easier.
That pain and anger began pouring into the manuscript he started on a ferry from Seattle to Victoria, British Columbia. Tom holed up in a Kimpton Hotel for three weeks, was fired from his job, and racked up a significant hotel bill, but he was done with a draft of his debut novel. It shouldn’t have been this easy, but he got an agent and a book deal within months. Even if he hadn’t been so manic to write it, Jennifer would not have been entitled to any profits. But when a bidding war for publication and movie rights led to a hefty bonus, she was happy to claim her fair share.
And now he was still unemployed, living in his old room and going to a kid’s birthday party. Thankfully, the awkward silences and the weary glances of pity had subsided since those first few months after the divorce. Now, everyone wanted him to get on with life. Move on. Meet our friend, she’s cute. Why don’t you date more? He resolved to make an appearance and then go to a corner bar and see what emptiness he could find, either by drink or casual companionship.
When Tom got to the park, five-year-old Steven was already high on birthday adrenaline, lemonade, and playing with his friends. Chris was Tom’s best friend growing up and his best man. Now that Tom was back in town, Chris tried to include him in everything. And because Tom didn’t have anything to do, why not be the weird single guy with no kids at a birthday party?
Ever since he’d been a kid, he loved Golden Gate Park. Who wouldn’t? San Francisco’s answer to Central Park in New York City, Golden Gate Park was over 1,000 acres of urban green space with trails, lakes, botanical gardens, and museums. The fog often settles amongst eucalyptus and cypress trees like a cold, fluffy blanket. The party was near the Koret’s Children’s playground on the far East side of the park. There were three parties set up in the area, each sporting the same tablecloth and balloon setup, but the big banner that said “Happy Birthday Steven” was the beacon Tom needed.
“Hey Chris,” Tom said, and did the bro-hug thing that seemed they should have outgrown five years ago. “Not like the high school keggers we went to.”
“They are,” Chris said with a laugh. “Only now, no one spikes the punch or hooks up. See? We even got a band.”
By band, Chris meant a children’s musician setting up an amp, a microphone, and a guitar. He seemed out of place with his long hair, lean physique, leather bracelets, and four-day growth. He looked like he should be playing a real gig at a real club, not some park with overactive five-year-olds.
“Where did you find him?” Tom asked as Chris snuck him a beer in a solo cup. He guessed it was like a college party. “Seems more like he’d play the Independent than a birthday party.
“Becky said he played at another party that she took Steven to two months ago,” Chris said. “Said he was awesome.”
Tom wouldn’t tell Chris, but he could tell why this guy got plenty of recommendations. The moms were all sneaking glances at the musician, like they were ready to take him to the wooded areas of the park and shoot an OnlyFans video. Doesn’t matter if it’s Nine Inch Nails or The Wiggles; musicians get tail.
The musician wasn’t only getting attention from this party’s moms, either. Fifty yards away, moms attending a princess party kept leering over, wondering when he’d perform. Meanwhile, Snow White was getting creepy looks from the dads.
What was going on here?
“He wasn’t cheap either,” Chris said. “I felt like I was paying Dave Matthews.”
With a nod, the musician let Becky know he was ready, and Chris excused himself to wrangle the kids to sit in a circle around him. Behind them, the moms created a wall of porn fantasies, their bottom lips in a collective bite like an oversexed synchronized swimming routine. These moms, including Becky, were practically drooling in unison. Meanwhile, Chris was oblivious.
“Hey everybody, I’m Sam,” the musician said with a welcoming smile to compensate for the brief and slight feedback. Tom thought some moms would collapse.
“Hi, Sam,” the children sang out.
“I’m so excited to be here for Steven’s fifth birthday,” Sam’s high intensity fooled the children, but not Tom. He was there for the Venmo coming his way. “I’ve got some great songs for you today. I’ve got some originals and some stuff you probably know. Like… Who knows ‘Ol’ MacDonald.’”
With that, the screams of the children went wild, and a chorus of barnyard animals sprang out of nowhere. As Sam began, his voice captivated the entire party. Some children sat cross-legged while others danced around without pretension. For twenty minutes, Sam kept the children and the moms enthralled, going into Wheels on the Bus, Row, Row, Row Your Boat, and Pop Goes the Weasel, along with some original songs that Tom thought were impressive.
By the end of the set, the kids were satisfied but ready for cake and more running around. I helped with cake duty, distributing the chocolate and ice cream, while negotiating the wobbly leg of a card table that I believe we had used for beer pong. I felt like the lunch lady from my childhood, imploring them to hold the plate with two hands and to stay seated while they finished dessert. When everyone was served, Sam came over to Tom for a piece.
“Hey, man,” he said. “Can I get a scoop. I’m a sucker for ice cream.”
I nodded and began to scoop.
“That was great,” came a female voice. It was Aubrey, a mom with whom Chris tried to set Tom up within weeks of moving back. They got coffee, but neither of them was ready for the dating world. She was separated from Eric for only a few months. “You have a real talent.”
“Thank you,” Sam said. Tom admitted to himself that, though he was straight, Sam was empirically hot as fuck. If he had Sam’s looks, Audrey and he might still be making it in the single-wide bed set to the tunes of ‘90s R&B. “The kids like it.”
“Seriously, you’re like a rock star to these kids,” she said. “I think you’d be great for my kid’s party too.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know if he was surprised that she was asking for a performance at a birthday party in nine months or that he remembered that little Jack’s birthday was three months ago. Tom needed some new friends.
“If I’m free, I’d love to do it,” Sam said. “Do you want my card?”
“Why don’t you just put your number in and I’ll text you,” Aubrey said, handing him her phone. As he did, she bit her lip and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Maybe we can review calendars.”
Sam took her phone but looked up. Tom couldn’t believe he was this invisible and this was so blatant. He’d be surprised if Aubrey weren’t riding Sam the next time that her son was staying at Eric’s.
“Oh, hi Tom,” Aubrey said when Sam handed back the phone. “How are you?” Tom felt the secondhand flirtations but knew Aubrey was a cancer and resolved never to go on another date with her.
“Fine,” Tom said, but he was fed up watching these middle-class lifestyles playing out in monotony around him. To think that a year ago, this was the ideal life that he wanted for Jennifer and him. He wanted to be sneaking beers to his buddy at the birthday party, pay too much for a kid’s birthday party, and blindly let his wife go gaga over a musician, just as long as he could secretly lust for a Disney Princess.
But now he could see it all. To him, they were busy but bored. From birthday party to birthday party. From soccer games to dance lessons, and from PTO meetings to school field trips. He wished he could observe them without being tied to this existence. He would want to see how people acted when he was just a momentary blip in their lives, providing help. He wanted to be Sam.
Wait, he could be Sam. Or he could write about Sam, Snow White, the clown, and the magician. Tom imagined what the underbelly of the children’s entertainment industry was like. Was there a circuit that they all participated in? Did they go to workshops together? Did they have a manager?
Did Tom have an idea for his next novel?
Part 2: The Observant Roadie
When inspiration hits a writer, it’s hard to think of anything else. Tom forgot all about the birthday party that began the inspiration. He forgot about Aubrey, Chris, Becky, and little Steven. All he could think about was Sam, the attractive children’s musician, and how he wanted to create a fictional story about him for his next novel.
As soon as he could, Tom excused himself from Steven’s party at Golden Gate Park and walked two miles back to his mom’s apartment. He opened his laptop on his childhood desk and began typing a sketch of a story. He thought about a down-on-his-luck rock musician who had been dropped by his band and had to take a gig as a favor to his brother to perform at his nephew’s birthday party. When he’s given a favorable reception, good money, and references, he decides to work the children’s party circuit. Along the way, he meets non-Disney-sanctioned princesses, clowns, magicians, and more.
The ideas flowed out of him as easily as if he had meticulously planned them for years. Each story beat, from the inciting incident to the mid-point to the all-is-lost and all the way to the climax, poured from his mind into a story outline. One thing about his late mom’s place, a refuge for him after his breakup in Seattle, it held no distractions for him.
“Barry, I’ve got a better idea than what I gave you,” Tom said on the phone to his literary agent, Barry Donahoe. Hours ago, a desperate Tom spewed out a modern-day retelling of the New Testament as a political thriller, with Jesus portrayed as a woman. Barry was satisfied but not excited. Even Tom had his doubts. But Tom could sense Barry’s excitement growing as he went through the story’s synopsis, including character arcs, misadventures, and the climax.
“What do you think?” Tom asked when he was done.
“I love it,” Barry said. “It’s even got a movie deal built in. We can get the new young hot guy from Saturday Night Live to play your lead.”
Tom wasn’t sure of that casting, but at least Barry was as excited as he was. Tom was relieved. After months without anything solid to pitch his agent, Tom felt invigorated. That is, until Barry asked. “So when can I expect a manuscript to give to the publisher?”
Tom grimaced. The ideas for novels were always a lot easier than writing 80,000 words. “A few months? I need to do some research, pull together the first draft, revise, share with some sample readers, then I can get it back to you.”
“Three would be better,” Barry said. “We have strung the publisher along for nearly two years. They’ll want something sooner. Tell you what. Bang out a good 50 pages in the next few weeks. Then I’ll get you the extra month or two to finish it up, sound good?”
Tom agreed, and over the next three weeks, he wrote a banger of a first chapter, followed by a setup for the second act. He did his best to fill out the cast of characters on his children’s entertainment circuit, but he needed to see for himself. He asked Chris for Sam’s contact information.
“I heard he’s banging Aubrey,” Chris said on the phone. “I didn’t see that coming.”
Tom shook his head, called Sam, and set up an interview. Turns out he had a gig at a well-to-do family in Noe Valley and would need a roadie. Tom agreed. Why not? A chance to be a part of the crew, see a beautiful house, and get the essence of Sam and the existence he led.
The house was a 100-year-old refurbished classic San Francisco Victorian that sat on the hill overlooking downtown. From the porch, one could see the Golden Gate, downtown, and the Bay Bridge. The land itself cost more than $2 million, and the house, judging by its polished wood floors, modern smart appliances, and décor straight out of HGTV, was twice that. Tom was surprised that this family didn’t hire Jim Henson’s workshop put on a puppet show.
“Pretty nice, eh?” Sam asked Tom as he helped carry an amp into the backyard. Well, it was a backyard, but it was more like a park with a private garden. There was a terrace to the side where we would set up. “Dude just sold his startup for a cool billion.”
“Wow,” Tom said, looking around. This was the closest he would ever get to a billion at any temperature. “And no offense, but two weeks ago, you were playing in Golden Gate Park. How did you get this?”
Sam laughed, and Tom realized he was younger, maybe in his mid-20s. His brown curly hair flopped over his face, and he wore a pooka shell necklace. Were those in again? He might look as at home on the beach near a surfboard as with a guitar.
“I get referrals, man. It’s crazy,” Sam said, and Tom imagined the reviews. Great with kids, sings Oasis. Great abs. “These moms tell each other. And somehow it, like, jumped income levels about a month ago. Like, that was the last park gig I have for a while. I’m booking back yards, and I’ve even got an agent looking for a record deal. It’s crazy.”
“And did you play regular rock shows?” Tom asked. “I mean at clubs and stuff.”
“Yeah, but I am making more now and not having to split it with the band. So that makes some of the kids with impulse control worth it.”
“And some of the moms have impulse control, too, right?” Tom asked with a wink. Sam looked confused for a second before Tom added. “I know about Aubrey from the party. That you’re seeing her.”
Recognition crossed Sam’s eyes. “Right. Though I’m not seeing her. She just came over and fucked me once. Some of these moms are crazy—especially the richer ones. You watch. I may get a couple of pairs of panties today, no joke.”
On cue, a woman in her mid-30s approached. She filled the tight Lycra outfit as though she were teaching a yoga class or a Lululemon fitness model. It turns out she was Ellie Klein, the host of this event. Tom noticed the rock on her hand, so big that he thought she was carrying a disco ball.
“Mind if I steal Sam for a moment while you set up?” Ellie Klein asked. “Just need to go over a few things before the guests arrive.”
As they left, Sam looked back with a sly smile. Tom shook his head. Would this story be fictional or a ghost-written memoir? The chapters were writing themselves.
“So, you’re the musician?” another female approached Tom. If they are flirting with me, no wonder Sam is shooting fish in a barrel, Tom thought.
“No, I’m just writing a story about him, and I’m helping him out so I can get a flavor,” Tom said. Momentarily, he thought about lying and saying he was in the band, but his lie would be revealed soon enough when Sam got on stage, and Tom was in the audience. “Sam let me tag along. He’ll be back in a little bit.”
“So, you’re a reporter?” she asked. Unlike Ellie, who looked like she spent most of her time doing charity work from the country club dining room, this woman was all business. She had dark hair and bright blue eyes. She wasn’t in yoga attire. Instead, she wore jeans and a white button-down. She could have been his boss back when he was writing copy for an ad agency in Seattle. He could tell the truth about his novel, but he didn’t want to get into it. “Yeah. It’s good to get first-hand knowledge of what he does and how he does it.”
“I hear he’s good,” the woman said. “He comes highly recommended.”
“I know. I attended a gig at Golden Gate Park last week. He blew the roof off.”
The woman laughed. She was beautiful, but even more attractive when she smiled.
“I’m Tom,” he said. “The Roadie.”
“I’m Trina. My daughter and Ellie’s daughter are best friends. We’re here early so that Mason and Derry can get ready, like they’re going to prom. Or something.”
Trina looked around.
“Ellie had to go over details with Sam,” Tom said, trying to keep a straight face. He didn’t know the relationship between Trina and Ellie.
“Ah,” Trina said, raising her eyebrows. She understood. “So, they should be back in about 5 minutes?”
“No, she’s not talking to me. She’s talking to Sam,” Tom said, hoping the joke would land. It was a little dicey, but it worked. Trina laughed again.
“You’re funny,” Trina said. “You should do some kid-appropriate standup.”
“I’m not into poop humor,” I said. “Nor do I know anything about Bluey or Paw Patrol. I thought they were bouncers in the Tenderloin until a couple of weeks ago.”
Ellie and Sam came through the door again, mainly looking like they had when they left, though Sam’s shirt was now missing a button, and Ellie’s hair was slightly frazzled coming out of her ponytail holder.
“Well, I’ll let you finish setting up. I need to talk to see what our little monsters are up to anyway.”
Trina and Ellie left, leaving Tom and Sam to finish setting up. Guests, most of them under eight, began showing up, and they sped directly to the village of bounce houses set up in the middle of the yard.
“See, what did I tell you?” Sam asked. “These moms leave groupies in the dust. Ellie’s yoga skills are unreal. She just…”
“I don’t want to know,” Tom said, reminded of how his ex-wife took yoga and ran off with her yoga instructor. “Besides, women don’t drop their underwear at writers.”
“You’re musician adjacent. That’s all that matters,” Sam said, and they finished the setup. About an hour into the party, the children were summoned to sit in front of Sam as he sang both standards and originals. But unlike the party for Steven, the cake was only the intermission. Sam had another set.
Tom hung around in the back. Whether he was Sam-adjacent or not, he stood out at this party of elementary high society. The parents in attendance looked like they had stopped by on the way to a polo match, while the children wore luxury brands. Regardless of any best sellers, he wouldn’t come this close to Louis Vuitton unless it fell off a TJ Maxx truck.
“Get any cake?” Trina asked, as she stood next to Tom. “It’s from Zibatreats Cakes.”
That cake probably cost more than my mom’s mortgage, Tom thought. He saw a spread in a magazine while waiting for a coffee. The cakes were more like art displayed in a gallery. They were so expensive that the bakery offered a payment plan.
“Nothing but the best for little Derry,” Tom said. “I’d hate to impose. I’m only the roadie.”
“Don’t worry,” Trina said. “There’s plenty, and it goes to the trash afterward.”
Like a spy on a mission, Tom slipped by Trina and went behind a pillar of the patio. He shifted his eyes back and forth, then locked in with her before making his next move. Trina laughed, encouraging him, and Tom tiptoed to the cake. The jig was nearly up when Tom ran into a grandmother, but he quickly spun out of the way and to the table. This earned an audible laugh from Trina, almost cueing everyone to Tom’s attempt at cake thievery. When Tom reached the table, he gave one quick shift of the eye, before swiping the cake and slipping it behind his back. Slowly, he backed all the way to his original spot.
“You made it,” Trina said, amused. “I wasn’t sure when Grandma Wilcox stepped in front, but you spun like a 49er and avoided it. Good work.”
“NFL running back is my next career,” Tom said.
“After journalist and roady,” Trina replied.
“You got it,” Tom said, looking at the lovely chocolate cake before realizing. “I don’t have a fork.”
Trina shook her head. “What are you going to do with you, Tom?”
“Eat like animals.” And Tom put his fingers around the gooey dessert and brought a piece to his mouth. Wow, it was so good, he moaned.
“Easy tiger or else people will think you’re helping Ellie,” Trina said with a wink. Tom gave her a look. “Let’s just say it’s no secret, except to her husband, why she goes to yoga and has male help for everything at this house.”
So, Sam shouldn’t feel too special, Tom thought. From the stage, Sam nodded over to Tom, who needed help before the next set. “Looks like my cake break is cut short. If I don’t see you before we leave, it was a pleasure to meet you, Trina.”
“Good to meet you, Tom,” Trina said, pulling out a piece of paper and writing her number on it. “But maybe we can talk about your budding standup career over coffee sometime.”
“Sure,” Tom said, accepting the phone number. Maybe there was something to being Sam adjacent.
Part 3: The Plot Strikes Back
“Good news,” Barry Donahue said. “They loved the book. They think it’s funny, irreverent, and a send-up of suburban life. They will assign an editor. Even better. She’s local, and she wants to meet in person.”
Tom spent his morning at the Mad Dog in the Fog Pub in the Haight in San Francisco, having an English Breakfast while watching the Chelsea FC match. Though he hadn’t touched a soccer ball since his youth, Chris brought him here a few times since he’d been back, and he liked the idea of finding an offbeat community not tied to American sports. There was a niche to it: the matches were done by 9 a.m., the walls were adorned with beer signs from around the world, the place was packed with Chelsea fans in blue soccer shirts, and it was acceptable to have Guinness with breakfast.
“She’s in San Francisco?” Tom asked. Most editors were in New York and preferred to work virtually. “And in person? That’s novel.”
“I know, right?” Barry said, but Tom could hardly hear him. A big cheer went up as Chelsea scored on a breakaway to go up 1-0 against its hated rival, Tottenham. “I’m stuck in my office, and you sound like you’re at a frat party.”
“Chelsea match,” Tom said. Giving a high-five to Chris. “They’re fun. You should get out of that office on the weekends, go to a pub, and watch European football.”
Barry wasn’t interested in any sports that didn’t involve cocktail parties and transactional conversations. Tom knew he wouldn’t be friends with Barry in real life. But he pulled together deals as he had for Play It Again, Sam, the tentative title of his novel. After promising to get back in touch to set a time to meet with the editor, Tom ended the call and returned his attention to the Blues.
Next to him, Chris was all smiles. He became an Anglophile when he attended graduate school in London, and since Tom returned from Seattle, Chris had made it his mission to convert Tom to support Chelsea. If Chelsea held on for ten more minutes, then they’d be in the top 4 position in the table again.
“So fricking glad you were able to make it out,” Chris said when the match was over, and Chelsea claimed a 2-0 victory. “You’ve been a hermit for the last two months.”
Tom was reticent. The only way he knew how to write was to forget everything and everyone, and focus all his energy on it. Maybe it was best that Jennifer had left him. She wouldn’t have stood for the way he lived during these marathon sessions. Even Yoda, the Chihuahua he inherited from his mother, was planning to revolt.
“I had to get the book done,” Tom said. “I had a harsh deadline. And once I had the idea, I had to push through.”
“I can’t believe that birthday musician was your inspiration,” Chris said. “Now, am I a character?”
Tom shook his head. “No, the main characters are their own. I used some of the stories I heard from Sam and others and placed them where they made sense.”
“How about that one rich yoga lady that fucked Sam right before her kid’s party?”
“A bit,” Tom admitted. He regretted telling Tom that story. But he didn’t share that he had combined Ellie, the yoga mom, and Trina, the woman who flirted with Tom and asked him out, into one character in the book. “That was a bit of fun to live in Sam’s shoes for a bit.”
“Yum,” Chris said and smiled like the repressed married perv he was. A happily married man and father of a five-year-old and another on the way, he lived vicariously through every single man getting some, including fictional characters. “By the way, did you ever call that woman who asked you out?”
Tom shook his head. He was so focused on his story that he had neglected to contact Trina. Then, by the time he finished the manuscript, he had lost it.
“Lost it,” Tom shrugged and regretted his error. But then again, why didn’t Trina take his phone and enter it in like normal people do these days? “Oh well, that’s the breaks. She was probably too high-end for me anyway. Anyone who attended that birthday party earned more each month than my entire advance.”
“Hey, not all of us are snobs,” Chris said, looking hurt for a moment before his big smile returned.
After the match, Tom walked through Golden Gate Park and back to his mom’s Sunset apartment. Basking in the high from the Chelsea win, he let himself think about remodeling his mom’s place. What if Barry could get a movie deal for the book? That was where the real money lay. He might finally throw out his childhood desk and give away his mom’s collection of ceramic frog figurines.
He shook off those dreams and returned to reality. His book was on the fast track. He was in a one-on-one meeting with his new editor. Sometimes, meeting over Zoom made it hard to connect and understand the author. His editor on Voyage to Victoria never connected with him, so he never felt they were on the same page. But now, someone local? Fantastic. In fact, when he checked his email, Tom found a calendar invite to meet Ms. Houston for lunch at the North Beach Cafe on Wednesday to discuss the book. Ms. Houston? Well, that’s formal, but ok.
A week later, Tom arrived at the restaurant for his meeting with “Ms. Houston” to discuss the book. He arrived on time, his messenger bag containing a printed copy of the manuscript. He was ready to dive in, get to know one another, and begin the process.
The restaurant was old-school, with brass rails, dark-wood booths, perfectly white napkins, and servers who had worked the room since before he bought bootlegged cassette tapes. Tom followed the host, in step with Sinatra’s I’ve Got You Under My Skin, and was excited to meet with this mysterious Ms. Houston. He looked forward and saw the back of a woman’s head. She had dark hair. That must be her. When the host got to the table, Ms. Houston turned, and Tom gasped.
“Trina?”
“There’s the author whom I thought was a journalist but was really a novelist who didn’t call me back.”
“Well, um, I got focused on the book.”
“Focused on writing me into a sexual tryst with your main character?”
An older couple nearby drew a collective breath and stared at the scene. It was the most action they had this year.
“Um,” Tom looked around. No one was looking at them… yet. “I can explain all of it.”
“I think you should,” she said.
Tom sat down and was grateful for the glass of water with lemon in front of him. It was room temperature, but it moistened the suddenly dry throat and mouth.
“So, yes, I used that story with Sam and Ellie in the book,” he began.
“But instead of Ellie, you described me,” Trina said. Her blue eyes were as memorable as ever, and I described them perfectly. “People are going to think I was the one with that guy.”
Trina’s eyes, still mesmerizing, were narrow and using all of their powers to intimidate him. It was working. In a moment, he wondered if he had a book deal at all, or was this one big revenge plot against him for transgressions at a kid’s birthday party?
“OK, I admit, I described you,” Tom started, but how to say that you were attracted to your editor and fantasized about her? “But because I thought it was better for the character to be involved with a smart, mature woman, and not some neighborhood floozy in Lululemon.”
Trina’s mouth turned from consternation to a smile, suppressing a laugh. “A floozy? Your written prose is amazing, but if I’m going to work with you, you will need to eliminate floozy from your vocabulary.”
Tom stared blankly at her for a moment. How had she wanted to kill him a moment before, and now she was laughing and smiling beautifully?
“Oh my God, I was joking,” Trina said. “I set this up so that I could see your reaction. And to get you back for one telling me you were a journalist, and two for never calling me.”
Tom felt his shoulders roll back from his ears, the tension easing through his body. He had a book deal. He had an editor, and she already seemed as though she wasn’t going to share the truth in a way that would be effective, if uncomfortable.
“I said I was writing a story,” Tom countered. “You assumed I was a journalist.”
“Technicality. And why didn’t you call?”
“I was focused and then lost your number when I was ready,” Tom said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it on her side of the table. “Now do what normal people do and type it directly.”
Trina took the phone, gave it a sly smile, and entered the digits. When she was done, she handed it to him. When he grabbed the phone, she kept holding it.
“But let’s be clear, you may have missed your shot at dating me. I’m your editor now. Nothing but red marks and opinions, and this will be the most romantic meal we have.”
“Well then, let’s do it right,” Tom said, calling over the waiter. “A bottle of Chardonnay. We’ve got a lot to celebrate, least of all sharing Play it Again, Sam to the world.”
“Don’t get attached to that title. We’re thinking something simpler… Piano Man.”
About Piano Man
Piano is a fake novel that I’m creating for this anthology. I’m writing a draft that may also be published at some point. For now, use this as a reference as for this anthology project.
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.)