| All rights reserved. Jen McConnell. Copyright 2009. |
Writing, Novels
 | |  | |  | |  |
I am actively searching for an agent for my novel Dunderhead,
which is excerpted here.
which is excerpted here.
Writing Excerpts: Novels Short Stories Poems Essays
Dunderhead, the love story with a big difference
Fall, 1993
Behind the desk in his office with the view of Salinas’ Central Park, Donald hunched over in his
chair, examining the scab on his forearm, trying to determine the best plan of attack. Though the
office was well ventilated, he was already beginning to sweat from the strong morning sun on his
back. He couldn’t remember how he hurt his arm, but whatever it was had left a two-inch wound that
would have healed a dozen times over by now if he just left it alone. But he couldn’t.
He felt a special satisfaction from ripping a scab off cleanly in one piece without a hint of blood.
He only managed to do it once in a while. The last time had been with a wound from an encounter with
a nail that had come loose from his condo's garage door. But that time had filled him with an unusual
sense of accomplishment, so much more satisfying than the work he did for Connor Consulting. Not that
he didn’t enjoy helping businesses be more efficient but in his mind he was too good at his job and
there weren’t many challenges left.
Donald grabbed the corner of the scab and glanced at his phone again. No blinking message light. He
didn’t really expect Sarah Jennings to call him out of the blue but couldn’t help but wake up every
morning with renewed hope. Since she’d moved away – nearly ten years earlier – Donald alternated
between searching for her around the country and searching for a flesh and blood girlfriend in
Salinas. Finding Sarah had become the focus of his life. Find her and find something that would
define him – more than a nickname or hobby.
Connor Consulting had sent Donald to Dallas, Minneapolis, Birmingham, Boulder and a bunch of other
cities that blurred together, where Donald could combine work with his quest for Sarah. The first
thing he did when arriving at a hotel was to check the phone book for her name. There was a S.
Jennings in nearly every city, giving him momentary hope as he dialed the phone. He was inevitably
disappointed when the number was either disconnected, a wrong number or an invalid eager to talk to
Donald about the commonness of her name.
The second thing he did was find a fortune teller or palm reader. He didn't look them up in the phone
book but knew where to look as he walked the streets. Every city had them tucked out of sight in busy
downtowns, trendy neighborhoods and sleepy suburbs. It was a handmade sign in a window of a one-
person travel agency, a stencil of a crystal ball on a mailbox, or a poorly copied notice posted in a
coffee shop. Donald couldn’t pass up any of them.
In the meantime, Donald dated a few local women, but the thing was, he still didn’t have a thing.
His job at Connor Consulting was his career, not his thing. He didn’t want to identify himself by his
work or his penis, he reminded himself. There had to be more.
This thought had kept him from falling asleep the night before. He’d finally got out of bed at two a.
m. Outside his window, the condo complex was quiet except for the soft sounds of a wind chime two
condos away. Donald stared into the nothingness for a while, then went back to bed, thinking about
what could be his thing.
In high school, Hamster was the champion masturbator. Jem was the brain. Bob was the magician and the
flake. Brian was the jock – the one who'd never been kicked off a team. Donald had been Dunderhead
but always wanted to be something else.
After college, Donald had tried a bunch of different things. He'd been the sports nut, wearing a
football jersey all the time – even to the office. The barfly. The career guy. For six months, he
attended the local Baptist church with his father, thinking maybe religion was his thing. That ended
when Donald fell asleep one too many times in the deep, cushiony pews. He bought clear-framed glasses
to appear smarter, but hated the way they pinched his nose. But finally, in the middle of the
sleepless night, it had come to him: jokes. Donald would make the ladies laugh.
He'd stayed up until nearly four in the morning looking up jokes in books he never knew he had.
Donald had just worked the edge of the scab up with his fingernail without drawing blood when his
boss, Rick Schilling, walked into his office, yelling “Heidi-ho!” Donald jumped in his chair, pulling
the scab half off. Schilling had the habit of shouting every word like it was a cheer at a football
game. Donald looked up to see a blond woman about his own age trailing behind Schilling, stopping
every few steps to rub one leg against another.
Young grasshopper, Donald thought, trying to discreetly wipe away the blood that had formed at the
corner of the scab.
“Morning, Rains,” Schilling screamed. “This is Bernie.” He pulled the woman forward. “Filling in for
Wanda. Out with bronchitis.”
“You okay?” Donald gestured to her legs with his elbow.
“Mosquito bites,” she replied.
“In September?”
“They seem to find me.”
“You must be sweet as honey, right?”
“Nice to meet you, too.” She held out her hand.
Donald stood up, shot out his hand to shake and sat down again, resuming his slightly bent posture
with one arm beneath his desk.
Bernie smiled, her full lips open slightly.
Donald thought, temps are fair game.
Schilling laughed too loud. “Watch out, Bernie, this one’s dangerous.”
Bernie said nothing but smiled wider at Donald, showing her bright, large teeth. She was familiar
somehow, as if she’d served him coffee or bagged his groceries recently.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Rains?” Bernie asked.
“Please call me Donald. After lunch, I’ll need you to proof an efficiency report.”
“The Markins report?” Schilling shouted. “You are fast, Rains.” He shook his head. “Gonna be too
efficient for your own job one of these days.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Donald watched Bernie stagger out behind Schilling, rubbing her legs back and forth. Below her skirt,
he could see big red infected splotches on the back of her calves. She couldn’t leave them alone to
heal. I think I'm in love, he laughed to himself.
After they left, Donald worked on his scab and the Markins report until lunchtime. After six months
with Connor Consulting, Donald had become the best Efficiency Manager in the firm and had put his
career on autopilot for the past two years. He wanted a challenge but not enough to seek it out.
Life, except for the lack of Sarah or a girlfriend, was comfortable. His condo was only ten miles
from his father, whom he visited almost every weekend. He traveled the country for work, searching
for Sarah, and visiting every fortune teller and palm reader he could find, on the company’s time.
He’d been to see Jem a few times at Yale in Connecticut, caught Bob’s show in Vegas, and learned to
surf Maui's shores. All of that was great, except he wanted to share those experiences with someone,
preferably the grown-up Sarah.
At one o’clock, Donald headed out to his usual deli, passing Bernie at the reception desk. She was
bent over, scratching her legs. Donald draped his jacket over his forearm to hide the three band-aids
he’d applied to the weeping scab. Time to put his plan into action.
“Hey, Bernie.” He leaned against the desk. “What do you call a short fortune teller who escaped from
prison?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up and smiled. “What?”
“A small medium at large.”
Bernie laughed, opening her mouth wide before quickly covering it with her hand. “That’s a good one.”
She continued to laugh and scratch as Donald walked downstairs and into the afternoon sunshine.
Outside, he smiled at two women waiting for a bus and held the deli door open for a string of
customers. He felt good. During his early-morning research, he had leafed through a dusty book of
quotes, toasts and jokes, memorizing half a dozen all-purpose ones for any situation. When he was
trying to be career guy, Donald was so serious. This was better. He thought of Jem the saint and Bob
the flake. In high school, Donald’s feverish plan had been to blend in. In college, he’d been just
another rudderless boat in the lake of dopey guys, notable for the one reason he didn't want. Now,
though, he was ready to distinguish himself.
Back from lunch, the reception area was vacant. On his desk, Donald had a message from Schilling.
Since he would finish the Markins report ahead of schedule, Donald was being sent to Seattle for the
weekend. Donald picked up the report and walked to the front with it.
Bernie had returned and was standing with one leg on the chair, scratching her calf again as she
spoke on the phone. Despite the splotches, they were the nicest legs Donald had seen in a while. She
smiled and gestured at him to wait. Donald noticed for the first time that she had a dimple on one
cheek. And there was that familiarity again. He sniffed. Perfume? Bug repellent? He handed her the
report as she sat down.
“Would you read this for me?” he asked. “Just need it checked for typos. I have a bad habit of
putting in apostrophes where they shouldn’t be.”
She laughed and slapped the desk. “Oh, Donald, you’re too much.”
Donald frowned. This wasn’t part of the plan, he thought. She was supposed to be shyly charmed by his
wit, not bellowing like she was at a comedy club. He shook his head.
“No, wait,” he said. “I got one for you. A woman with a glass eye is eating alone at a restaurant,
watching a man across the room, who is also eating alone. Suddenly, behind her, a waiter trips and
hits her in the head with a tray. Her glass eye pops out and shoots across the room, landing in the
man’s soup. The woman is horrified but out of her one good eye, she sees the man smiling at her. She
stands up and walks over to him and says, ‘Excuse me. I don’t know you, but you caught my eye.’”
The phone rang just as Bernie began to laugh but she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to answer it.
She laughed so hard she bent over and began to wheeze. The phone continued to ring as Donald stood
dumbfounded. It was a great joke, but not that funny. The phone stopped ringing. Bernie was doubled
over in the chair, wheezing and laughing. The phone rang again.
“Bernie,” Donald whispered.
She sat up and waved her hands, tears streaming down her face. It was frowned upon for Managers to
answer the phone. Ruined protocol, Schilling insisted. Donald took a deep breath and picked up the
phone, ready to disguise his voice if it was a client. It was merely someone looking for a fax
number. Donald gave the number as Bernie took deep breaths.
“You okay?” He hung up and picked up the report from the desk.
“You are the funniest guy I’ve ever met,” she said.
“And we haven’t even slept together yet,” he answered.
She began to laugh again.
Donald winced. “No, no. Not funny.” He backed away. “Gotta get back to work.”
“Didn’t you want me to proof that?” She gestured to the report.
“That’s okay,” he said.
“What about the apostrophes?”
“Not a problem.”
As Donald hurried to his office, her laughter, which soon turned into a hacking cough, echoed in the
hallway. Sure, she picked at her bug bites and was already somehow familiar but he didn’t need that
kind of insanity in his life, no matter how desperate he was for a girlfriend.
Fall, 1993
Behind the desk in his office with the view of Salinas’ Central Park, Donald hunched over in his
chair, examining the scab on his forearm, trying to determine the best plan of attack. Though the
office was well ventilated, he was already beginning to sweat from the strong morning sun on his
back. He couldn’t remember how he hurt his arm, but whatever it was had left a two-inch wound that
would have healed a dozen times over by now if he just left it alone. But he couldn’t.
He felt a special satisfaction from ripping a scab off cleanly in one piece without a hint of blood.
He only managed to do it once in a while. The last time had been with a wound from an encounter with
a nail that had come loose from his condo's garage door. But that time had filled him with an unusual
sense of accomplishment, so much more satisfying than the work he did for Connor Consulting. Not that
he didn’t enjoy helping businesses be more efficient but in his mind he was too good at his job and
there weren’t many challenges left.
Donald grabbed the corner of the scab and glanced at his phone again. No blinking message light. He
didn’t really expect Sarah Jennings to call him out of the blue but couldn’t help but wake up every
morning with renewed hope. Since she’d moved away – nearly ten years earlier – Donald alternated
between searching for her around the country and searching for a flesh and blood girlfriend in
Salinas. Finding Sarah had become the focus of his life. Find her and find something that would
define him – more than a nickname or hobby.
Connor Consulting had sent Donald to Dallas, Minneapolis, Birmingham, Boulder and a bunch of other
cities that blurred together, where Donald could combine work with his quest for Sarah. The first
thing he did when arriving at a hotel was to check the phone book for her name. There was a S.
Jennings in nearly every city, giving him momentary hope as he dialed the phone. He was inevitably
disappointed when the number was either disconnected, a wrong number or an invalid eager to talk to
Donald about the commonness of her name.
The second thing he did was find a fortune teller or palm reader. He didn't look them up in the phone
book but knew where to look as he walked the streets. Every city had them tucked out of sight in busy
downtowns, trendy neighborhoods and sleepy suburbs. It was a handmade sign in a window of a one-
person travel agency, a stencil of a crystal ball on a mailbox, or a poorly copied notice posted in a
coffee shop. Donald couldn’t pass up any of them.
In the meantime, Donald dated a few local women, but the thing was, he still didn’t have a thing.
His job at Connor Consulting was his career, not his thing. He didn’t want to identify himself by his
work or his penis, he reminded himself. There had to be more.
This thought had kept him from falling asleep the night before. He’d finally got out of bed at two a.
m. Outside his window, the condo complex was quiet except for the soft sounds of a wind chime two
condos away. Donald stared into the nothingness for a while, then went back to bed, thinking about
what could be his thing.
In high school, Hamster was the champion masturbator. Jem was the brain. Bob was the magician and the
flake. Brian was the jock – the one who'd never been kicked off a team. Donald had been Dunderhead
but always wanted to be something else.
After college, Donald had tried a bunch of different things. He'd been the sports nut, wearing a
football jersey all the time – even to the office. The barfly. The career guy. For six months, he
attended the local Baptist church with his father, thinking maybe religion was his thing. That ended
when Donald fell asleep one too many times in the deep, cushiony pews. He bought clear-framed glasses
to appear smarter, but hated the way they pinched his nose. But finally, in the middle of the
sleepless night, it had come to him: jokes. Donald would make the ladies laugh.
He'd stayed up until nearly four in the morning looking up jokes in books he never knew he had.
Donald had just worked the edge of the scab up with his fingernail without drawing blood when his
boss, Rick Schilling, walked into his office, yelling “Heidi-ho!” Donald jumped in his chair, pulling
the scab half off. Schilling had the habit of shouting every word like it was a cheer at a football
game. Donald looked up to see a blond woman about his own age trailing behind Schilling, stopping
every few steps to rub one leg against another.
Young grasshopper, Donald thought, trying to discreetly wipe away the blood that had formed at the
corner of the scab.
“Morning, Rains,” Schilling screamed. “This is Bernie.” He pulled the woman forward. “Filling in for
Wanda. Out with bronchitis.”
“You okay?” Donald gestured to her legs with his elbow.
“Mosquito bites,” she replied.
“In September?”
“They seem to find me.”
“You must be sweet as honey, right?”
“Nice to meet you, too.” She held out her hand.
Donald stood up, shot out his hand to shake and sat down again, resuming his slightly bent posture
with one arm beneath his desk.
Bernie smiled, her full lips open slightly.
Donald thought, temps are fair game.
Schilling laughed too loud. “Watch out, Bernie, this one’s dangerous.”
Bernie said nothing but smiled wider at Donald, showing her bright, large teeth. She was familiar
somehow, as if she’d served him coffee or bagged his groceries recently.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Rains?” Bernie asked.
“Please call me Donald. After lunch, I’ll need you to proof an efficiency report.”
“The Markins report?” Schilling shouted. “You are fast, Rains.” He shook his head. “Gonna be too
efficient for your own job one of these days.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Donald watched Bernie stagger out behind Schilling, rubbing her legs back and forth. Below her skirt,
he could see big red infected splotches on the back of her calves. She couldn’t leave them alone to
heal. I think I'm in love, he laughed to himself.
After they left, Donald worked on his scab and the Markins report until lunchtime. After six months
with Connor Consulting, Donald had become the best Efficiency Manager in the firm and had put his
career on autopilot for the past two years. He wanted a challenge but not enough to seek it out.
Life, except for the lack of Sarah or a girlfriend, was comfortable. His condo was only ten miles
from his father, whom he visited almost every weekend. He traveled the country for work, searching
for Sarah, and visiting every fortune teller and palm reader he could find, on the company’s time.
He’d been to see Jem a few times at Yale in Connecticut, caught Bob’s show in Vegas, and learned to
surf Maui's shores. All of that was great, except he wanted to share those experiences with someone,
preferably the grown-up Sarah.
At one o’clock, Donald headed out to his usual deli, passing Bernie at the reception desk. She was
bent over, scratching her legs. Donald draped his jacket over his forearm to hide the three band-aids
he’d applied to the weeping scab. Time to put his plan into action.
“Hey, Bernie.” He leaned against the desk. “What do you call a short fortune teller who escaped from
prison?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up and smiled. “What?”
“A small medium at large.”
Bernie laughed, opening her mouth wide before quickly covering it with her hand. “That’s a good one.”
She continued to laugh and scratch as Donald walked downstairs and into the afternoon sunshine.
Outside, he smiled at two women waiting for a bus and held the deli door open for a string of
customers. He felt good. During his early-morning research, he had leafed through a dusty book of
quotes, toasts and jokes, memorizing half a dozen all-purpose ones for any situation. When he was
trying to be career guy, Donald was so serious. This was better. He thought of Jem the saint and Bob
the flake. In high school, Donald’s feverish plan had been to blend in. In college, he’d been just
another rudderless boat in the lake of dopey guys, notable for the one reason he didn't want. Now,
though, he was ready to distinguish himself.
Back from lunch, the reception area was vacant. On his desk, Donald had a message from Schilling.
Since he would finish the Markins report ahead of schedule, Donald was being sent to Seattle for the
weekend. Donald picked up the report and walked to the front with it.
Bernie had returned and was standing with one leg on the chair, scratching her calf again as she
spoke on the phone. Despite the splotches, they were the nicest legs Donald had seen in a while. She
smiled and gestured at him to wait. Donald noticed for the first time that she had a dimple on one
cheek. And there was that familiarity again. He sniffed. Perfume? Bug repellent? He handed her the
report as she sat down.
“Would you read this for me?” he asked. “Just need it checked for typos. I have a bad habit of
putting in apostrophes where they shouldn’t be.”
She laughed and slapped the desk. “Oh, Donald, you’re too much.”
Donald frowned. This wasn’t part of the plan, he thought. She was supposed to be shyly charmed by his
wit, not bellowing like she was at a comedy club. He shook his head.
“No, wait,” he said. “I got one for you. A woman with a glass eye is eating alone at a restaurant,
watching a man across the room, who is also eating alone. Suddenly, behind her, a waiter trips and
hits her in the head with a tray. Her glass eye pops out and shoots across the room, landing in the
man’s soup. The woman is horrified but out of her one good eye, she sees the man smiling at her. She
stands up and walks over to him and says, ‘Excuse me. I don’t know you, but you caught my eye.’”
The phone rang just as Bernie began to laugh but she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to answer it.
She laughed so hard she bent over and began to wheeze. The phone continued to ring as Donald stood
dumbfounded. It was a great joke, but not that funny. The phone stopped ringing. Bernie was doubled
over in the chair, wheezing and laughing. The phone rang again.
“Bernie,” Donald whispered.
She sat up and waved her hands, tears streaming down her face. It was frowned upon for Managers to
answer the phone. Ruined protocol, Schilling insisted. Donald took a deep breath and picked up the
phone, ready to disguise his voice if it was a client. It was merely someone looking for a fax
number. Donald gave the number as Bernie took deep breaths.
“You okay?” He hung up and picked up the report from the desk.
“You are the funniest guy I’ve ever met,” she said.
“And we haven’t even slept together yet,” he answered.
She began to laugh again.
Donald winced. “No, no. Not funny.” He backed away. “Gotta get back to work.”
“Didn’t you want me to proof that?” She gestured to the report.
“That’s okay,” he said.
“What about the apostrophes?”
“Not a problem.”
As Donald hurried to his office, her laughter, which soon turned into a hacking cough, echoed in the
hallway. Sure, she picked at her bug bites and was already somehow familiar but he didn’t need that
kind of insanity in his life, no matter how desperate he was for a girlfriend.