The Hello and Goodbye Mr. Bigshot Contest

Okay: Mr. Bigshot needs another name. We are very early into the writing of this book and there so much that is not known about him, but I am hereby establishing an official CONTEST to RENAME him.

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Originally I thought it would be intriguing if he did not have a proper name per se, but I'm open to any and all suggestions. If I choose your suggestion for his new name, I will reward you with one of the following:

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--An original poem on any subject or for any person you'd like (you'll have to provide some info to me before I start)

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--You choose a character--yourself, your partner, your child, a fellow blogger--and I will somehow include/mention that person in this new book.

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Ooooh, I hope this is fun! Except that you'll have to take the time to read this next chapter:

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Claudia and Mr. Bigshot met in a laundry mat. She had just moved to Cambridge and, lamenting that the hookup of her washer/dryer was in the heartless hands of a suspicious plumber, she lugged her lingerie and favorite sweats to the Sudsy Spirit Clean-o-Mat, located on the corner of Sparrow and Cardinal Streets, where she begrudgingly banged her fists on the change machine, muttering “fuck” in the quietest and most irritated of voices.

Mr. Bigshot approached her with an amused grin on his beautiful face. At least that what she remembered, even seven years later. His chin rounded in a priest-like way and his nose looked like athletic perfection, but his most prominent feature was his eyes—blue, intense—they glistened with passion. Mr. Bigshot was hot. She remembered that too seven years later, and especially in the dark of a Marriott Courtyard or a Holiday Express, when his wild fearful breathing finally stopped, and he lay on top of her, quietly and totally fallen into her, like her eight week old niece lying on her chest.
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“Can I help you with that machine?” he grinned.

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Claudia looked up at him—he was at least a foot taller than she, and grinned back.

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“I’m not a laundry type of girl,” she purred. “I’m here because another unreliable plumber didn’t show up this morning and my… well, never mind why.” This was Claudia, often on the edge of provocation and looking like Sister Mary Margaret readying for choir practice.

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"That’s interesting,” the man said. “I’m not a laundry type of guy, but my plumber didn’t show up either and I have a sick baby girl at home who’s thrown up over everything, the kitchen tablecloth, the dishtowels, all her clothes—everything.” He paused, “I can give you some of my quarters.”

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Claudia smiled. “Sir, I cannot allow myself to be indebted to a stranger in a laundry mat. My mother taught me that in second grade.”

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“I could charge you the price of your company until the wash cycle ends,” Mr Bigshot responded. “Or I could help you bang your way through this uncooperative change machine.”
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A normal wash rinse and dry cycle is approximately one hour max. During that time, Claudia and the man with the soft chin and fire eyes sat next to each other in two of those orange plastic scoop chairs. They twisted their bodies sideways so they three quarter faced one another, and Claudia told Mr. Bigshot how and why she had moved to Cambridge and he told her how and why his wife convinced him to endure the laundry mat on a Saturday morning when, unnoticed, fate decided to stir things up.

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“How many kids do you have?” Claudia asked.

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“Three,” Mr Bigshot answered. "Zoie is seven, Ryan is five, and the baby, Petunia, is almost one.”

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“Petunia,” Claudia tossed her head back, “That’s adorable and unusual.”

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“My wife begged me,” he responded. “It came to her in a dream. She said if it was a girl and we named her Petunia, she would skip dance through life and accomplish great things.”

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“How long have you been married?” Claudia asked.

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“Nine years.” For a second he broke their glance and looked away. Then he looked back her, she dressed in fitted jeans with ironed creases on each leg, a deep purple blouse with subtle black dots, black ankle boots, hooped silver earrings, and in case anybody missed the fact that she was feisty and fashionable, a scarf embedded every few inches with little pink pigs.

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“Are you happy?” Claudia blurted this out before she knew better. She corrected herself before he could answer, but not before she saw the momentary twitch in his left eye.

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“Oh jeez”, she said, “I’m sorry. What a jerk I can be. That’s not a laundry mat question,” she offered sheepishly. “I asked because I’m not married and I never know whether I want to be or not.”
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Without speaking Mr Bigshot looked at Claudia. Normally she would have squirmed, then broken the silence with her quick wit and impressive vocabulary. But instead she looked back.
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Finally, he cleared his throat. “I'd like to see you again,” he said.

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Claudia had heard this before, multiple times actually, in bars and on subways where handsome men and weird men for some reason found her approachable and safe and,--she knew not to kid herself--a probable good fuck. Sometimes she would say yes—those times being when she equally sized up the guy as approachable, safe and a good fuck. But lately she had sworn off married men: too needy, too complicated, too demanding.

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She looked at Mr. Bigshot directly. “How come?’ she asked.

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“I don’t know,” he said. “I can tell you I’ve never done this before.”

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“In a laundry mat?” she asked.

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“No, not in a laundry mat, not anywhere.”

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He reached for her hand and folded it into his. He stared ahead and she stared at him. Think, think think she told herself. Married, three kids, decent: the worse signs.

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He spoke again, “May I call you? Maybe for coffee or lunch?”

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Claudia pulled her hand away, opened her purse, pulled out the Waterman pen her boss had given her when she was promoted to Lead Designer, ripped a piece of paper from her moleskine, neatly wrote out her full name and cell phone number, and handed it to him. She did not look up and barely moved at all.

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“Claudia...”he said.