My novel doesn't even have a working title as of yet.  This excerpt is from the last paragraphs of my chapter titled: "Burt Bacharach."  In my novel, Chad the protagonist works as a server in a wannabe swanky restaurant tucked away deep in the mountains of North Carolina.  He's searching for experience, love, inspiration, all that life can offer in hopes of harvesting some material he might use for his novel/writing.

The party had a few more drinks and a glass of wine or ten with their entrees.  The three of us servers stayed pretty busy considering we were all working the same table.  Terrence, the pastry chef, was the last in the kitchen to leave besides the dish washer.  He waited around for the duration of the meal in the event that someone might want dessert, but no one did.  He stoked his goatee and slammed his ball cap on the counter, and exasperated, he unwound a string of expletives from the kitchen to his car.

Chef was right.  It was after one o'clock when I first got the sense that this night could end.  Several times Burt called for Catherine, "Darling," he'd say and wag his finger in that antiquated, come hither way you see people call each other across crowded ballrooms in old movies, and then she'd lean in to his whisper and he'd try to slip some folded bills into her apron, but she kindly declined as she was instructed by Sherrie (the manager) and fed Burt the line.  Before he could ask for the check, Sherrie dropped by and whispered to him that it was on the house.

"How kind," Burt said, smiled and took Sherrie's hand with his right, drew her close and kissed her on the cheek, and I swear he grabbed her right breast with his left hand.  I swear it.  No one noticed but me, well, and Sherrie obviously.

Burt stood and helped his ladies put on their jackets and furs.  Everyone made for the door with Burt bringing up the rear.  Sherrie held the door and said goodbye as they went back to their cars.

I looked back at the table which was a mess of empty glasses, strewn silverware, and dirty linen.  Then, I noticed by one of the candles, a slight glare, and I remembered seeing Burt remove his wristwatch.  I darted to the table, grabbed the watch, and ran to the first BMW that arrived that night.  Burt had unlocked and opened all the other doors for the ladies, first, and was about to open the driver's side door.

"Mr. Bacharach," I shouted. He looked to be a bit irate.  I think I startled him.  "What is it, boy?"  Burt looked older at that moment than I'd seen him all night.

"I think this is your watch, sir."

Burt nodded and took the watch.  "Thanks, kid."  He started to get in the car.
"Uh, Mr. Bacharach, could I trouble you for a moment?"
"Sure, kid."  Burt reached in his coat pocket and picked out a Sharpie.
"Oh, no no.  That could probably get me fired," I laughed.
 Burt didn't.

"Um," I cleared my throat, "Mr. Bacharach, I was wondering.  You see, I'm a pretty big fan.  I think it's amazing how your music, the songs you've written are constantly re-inventing themselves and really standing the test of time.  I heard Noel Gallagher from Oasis perform 'This Guy's in Love With You' when I was sixteen and I had to immediately grab a guitar and learn how to play it.  Mr. Bacharach, you've written all these beautiful, timeless songs that everyone loves … I was just wondering, what's your inspiration, sir?  Where do you find this endless fount of zeal for what you do?"

"Well, kid," Burt heaved a mighty sigh at the question.  "Either you have the gift … or you don't."  He emphasized "gift" as if he'd just invented the word.

I stood staring blankly for a few seconds.  "Oh … I mean, you've got legions of fans and love pouring in from nearly everywhere you go, and … maybe it's that: this sort of perpetual love that your music fosters.  See, I write songs, too, mostly short fiction, but, well, you know, if you could pass any advice on to an up and coming songwriter, what would that be?"

Burt stretched out his arms and fit the diamond studded watch on his wrist, admired its gleam and then found much more favor gazing at the five ivory tinkling fingers, manicured and elegant with age, looked to me with resignation and said: "Either you have the gift, or you don't.  Thanks, kid."

 "You're welcome."

Inside Sherrie waited for me.  She wanted to know what Mr. Bacharach said to me.  I told her he tried to tip me for bringing him his watch, but I told him that it wasn't necessary and that he should dine with us again.  She seemed very pleased with that.

Larry (the bartender) pitched in and helped us all bus the table.  Catherine lifted a napkin left in Burt's seat.  Under the napkin there were two one hundred dollar bills and a card with a phone number and the name of one of the rental homes on the lake written on it.  She tucked them in her apron without anyone's notice.

She showed it to me that night in the parking lot after everyone had left.  It was two in the morning.  She laughed at the idea of cold calling Burt Bacharach, "What a sleazy guy," she said.  "Three plastic women should be enough for one old man.  Here," she handed me a hundred dollar bill.

"Whoa.  No way.  He totally left that for you and you did all the talking tonight; me and Janie just did the grunt work."

"Take it, Chad.  I feel like a whore for keeping any of it."

"We DO this for money.  You'd only be a whore if you called him … you're not going to call him are you?"

We both laughed at that.  "Ha. I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate that."  The laugh vanished from my lungs.

"See you tomorrow, Chad."

"Goodnight," I said and got in my car.  She did the same and drove away.  I put my car in reverse and said aloud, "Well, that's that," then drove off down a mountain that never felt so dark or empty.