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116 pages

English

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"Sideways 3 Chile" is the third, and final, novel in the trilogy that began with "Sideways" -- which became the award-winning movie of the same title by Oscar-winning director Alexander Payne -- and "Vertical," which won the 2011 Gold Medal for Fiction from the Independent Publisher Book Awards. "Sideways 3 Chile" finds our main protagonist Miles Raymond (Paul Giamatti in the original film) running out of money, but still surviving on the fumes of a past, but fleeting, fame. When he is offered an opportunity by a reputable magazine to write an article about the diverse wine regions of the country of Chile he jumps at the chance. At the end of "Vertical," Miles had fallen in love with a Spanish girl, Laura, and he asks her to fly from Spain to accompany him. Miles, in full panic anxiety mode, which is endemic to his character, flies to Chile to meet Laura and discover this beautiful and vast country. Complications, heartbreak, and romance ensue. In the great and desolate Atacama Desert in the north of Chile Miles comes face to face with himself.

Sujets

Adventure (Guyana)

Adventure

Romance

Thriller

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Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	15 décembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781622877638
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0540€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Sideways 3 Chile
Rex Pickett

First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
Sideways 3 Chile

A N ovel
by
Rex Pickett
Sideways 3 Chile
Copyright ©2014 Rex Pickett

ISBN 978-1622-877-63-8 EBOOK

November 2014

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
Part I
Prologue

At a certain point in my life I reached the ineluctable conclusion that the only truth I believed in was the immortality of my despair.
I have been called every name on the planet: intense, troubled, a fl â neur (their word was probably layabout , but I like fl â neur ), driven, dipsomaniacal, mendacious and a mendicant, taker not a giver, an artist, a loser, the worst writer on the planet (by nasty, underpaid senior editors at publishers houses), “gifted,” “raw talent,” “a great lover,” a “terrible boyfriend,” accused of writing from too personal a place ... I’ve heard it all. Still, I persevere.
I, on the other hand, naturally, see myself differently. I’m generous to a fault. I let others take advantage of me—also to a fault. Yes, I sometimes ruefully believe, that I’ve been persecuted, ripped off, driven to the St. Vitus Dance at what others have done to my work, or how they’ve taken credit for things they shouldn’t have, the litany of complaints go on. Because writers are at the front line of the creation, the ones who roll up their sleeves when there is nothing, a blank page staring them obstinately in the face, write against seemingly insuperable obstacles, of course they often feel abused.
My name is Miles Raymond. I’m the writer behind a character in a novel that was made into what I’m told is now a cult movie that’s set in wine country somewhere north of Santa Barbara. A plethora of individuals made a lot of money off my creation. I got the short end of the stick. I’m not complaining. If I thought about it, I’d go mad. If I chronicled the injustices, it would make me come across like someone who is ungrateful. As the director of the movie of my book advised, “Learn to meditate.” I’m learning to meditate. To move on. To continue to live my life in a sanctuary of sanity as the vultures wheel in the cobalt blue sky, waiting for my next creation so they can swoop down and pick at my bones with their raptor beaks. One more time.
I long for the beaches of Costa Rica. I long for a woman who will both understand me and lustily engage in the mutual pleasure of uninhibited sex. I don’t think this is asking too much, do you?
Women

She just walked out the door. She has wheat-colored blonde hair and Baltic blue eyes, tall, athletic, a former standout soccer player for her college. She kisses and fucks like you wouldn’t believe. Her ardor is frightening. Her liberated manners in the bedroom—and other rooms! — are refreshing. Her energy and imagination vie for depths of boundlessness. When she lets go she can be a screamer, but never a faker. She’s married.
I’ve come to the somewhat fatalistic realization that I have a thing for married women. Let’s face it, they mate like dolphins. Starved for affection and no longer constrained by the ethos of the ‘50s when infidelity was tantamount to sin they fornicate with abandon. Maybe they’re getting back at their philandering hippie fathers and their sex-deprived mothers and reversing history, I don’t know. All I know is that they come to me, without commitment, wanting only a little companionship, conversation and cunnilingus, then they slip into the mysterious deep of their complicated marriages—which I never ask about because I don’t want to know—only to return after a flurry of salacious emails with a smile on their faces and a willingness in their hearts.
They’re attracted to me because I don’t want a relationship with them. I don’t want them to fall in love with me, and vice versa. They prefer the security of their quotidian married lives. But they love the thrill of these ephemeral trysts. Now and then I fall in love with them, and that’s when it’s time to leave.
Katherine had that quality about her. To me, she was haloed with sex appeal, bonhomie, haunted beauty, and a full-throated loving attitude—when she was around, which was only a fraction of the week. I knew I was breaking my rule and falling in love with her when I started to miss her. My heart would sink whenever she slipped, usually in a rush, into her Range Rover and silently motored off into the night. No, I guess I didn’t want a relationship. I wanted to be able to protect my eremitic writing life. But then love goes where it will; the arrow can only follow!
I vowed not to get involved like this again, but then it just happened. Katherine came along in an almost incandescent daze. At an event I was hosting she strode up to me and introduced herself. Later she would confide that her husband had come to the dinner with her, but, surrounded by fans wanting their books signed, I don’t remember seeing him. We exchanged business cards. We started emailing. Then we started seeing each other. I told her I might be heading to Chile to research a novel on a pretext of writing an article as the wine columnist for Town & Country Magazine . She wished she could go. Sometimes, lying in bed, her face flushed, she would straighten at the waist and say, “I’m going.”
“Katherine, you’re not going. It involves too much.”
She gave me a sideways look and said with a stressed smile, “I love you, Miles.”
“I love you, too, Katherine.”
She held open her hands and stared at the emptiness of them, bemoaning her fate. Her husband was a semi-famous film director, worth millions. In my face, the face of her lover, she saw it all slipping through her hands like minnows: the Range Rover, the AMEX black card, the Frank Lloyd Wright in the Hollywood Hills with the turquoise pool, the kids she was debating having that I would never consent to. It was all a fantasy and we both knew it. What she didn’t want me to say was that it was over.
Me

I never said I was likable. Personable, comedic, perhaps, but in fact I’ve always risked being unlikable. If only I could find a starting point for my journey to redemption.
I’m not amoral, but some have accused me of espousing immorality in my writings. To them I say: I think we live in a complicated world where we are forced to fashion our own rules of morality as we trundle along. My goal is not to hurt anyone and not to take credit for anything I didn’t do, like some perfidious producers, I know. I like to be treated fairly, but know that I won’t be. Life is not a meritocracy, as one only has to spend a lifetime, like I have, in the entertainment business, to affirm.
I have no regrets. I get the odd writing job here and there. I still maintain a patina of fame, even if I have to call it to their attention, since I’m not physiognomically recognizable. But when I do, it can be a dopamine rush all its own. And end with me in bed with someone too young, too sycophantic, with screenplay or novel manuscript thrust out in her hand, my hand clutching my head, nursing a sledgehammer hangover with the memory of an opium addict.
I’m not unhappy, but I am dogged by melancholy, oxymoronic as that may sound. I realize I have fewer years left on this planet than I’ve already (mis)spent. I’m not one of those types who feels life owes me anything. I feel privileged to have come this far and never worked an honest day in my life. My hands are free of calluses and my face isn’t fissured by the sun. The scars to my psyche and my heart may be another book all together, but then no one who is sensitive to the cruelty of life’s vagaries doesn’t go unaffected. I’m not privileged in that way. I’ve got stories to write and I’ve been afforded the opportunities to write them. I’ve been fortunate that a few times some undefined deity has shone down on me with its refulgent light and put me, however momentarily, in its spotlight.
I was beginning to get lost in the labyrinth of my ruminations, starting to suck the marrow of my own brain. Time to call my friend Jack.
Jack and I

I realized I hadn’t gotten off the couch since Katherine left. My cock still ached from her frantic, clock-ticking, riding of it, and I could still feel where her absence hurt. I shook off the salacious image of her hair splashing on my chest, remembered my mantra about not wanting to get involved, then called my friend Jack if for no other reason than to hear a familiar voice.
“Miles, how are you?” Jack boomed, recognizing the number.
“Jack, what’s happening?”
“Not much. How’s the married chick?”
“Hotter than hot. But I think I crossed the Rubicon.”
“No, Miles. No! You can’t do that. It’s against the rules.”
“Yeah, I know, but the woman’s hot, and love is that one thing that C. G. never understood.”
“C. G. as in Jung?”
“ Absolutment !”
“Well, be careful, dude. The fucker’s a famous film director, and I don’t doubt he’d put a tracking device on your car. Or a nanny cam in your bedroom of sin!”
“I’m well aware of the risks. I trust her for some damn stupid reason.”
“You trust too many people, Miles. You’re naïve, gullible, a romantic. Look what that fucking producer did to you ...”
“Let’s not go there, Jackson. What’re you up to?”
“I’m writing a screenplay.”
“Oh, no. Say no. Not a fucking screenplay. You’re kidding me, right? You’re not a writer, Jackson, you’re an actor, a director, epigone though you may be.”
“All right, Mr. Killjo