This is the prologue of my newly-published book, MAYOR OF THE UNIVERSE. It's a book filled with wonder and mystery, hope and laughs. And there may be a few unexpected characters from unexpected places. I hope it tantalizes you to read more (it's available on Amazon.com).

Prologue

In the desolation of a South Dakota field whose shorn wheat stubble poked through a lather of new snow, a boy in a maroon corduroy jacket danced. A bitter wind snatched at the music playing on the
transistor radio held in his mittened hand, but still the boy shook his shoulders and swiveled his hips; a trillion stars his nightclub ceiling, the full moon his spotlight.
“Ladies, ladies, please, no fighting,” he said, his boots raising tiny white clouds. “You’ll all get your chance.”
With studied cool, he flicked up his matted fake shearling collar and jumped into the air, bouncing to the ground in a half-split. He was James Brown then, urging his hordes of fans to “tighten up!” while his furious footwork generated heat that scorched the snow. He was Elvis Presley, whose teasing pelvic thrusts and wobbly knees caused multiple swooning. He was — his mitten rode up and he saw the face of his watch glint in the moonlight — he was Fletcher Weschel, and he was late.
“Ladies, please!” he said, batting away the keys and underpants and love notes thrown at him as he ran toward the Ford Galaxy he had just that day been licensed to drive. Before opening the door of the idling car, he tipped the brim of his plaid wool hat and pointed to a lovely redhead. “Now you, Ann Margret — I’ll see you in Vegas.”
Even though the roads were empty in all directions, he turned on his blinker to indicate his merge into traffic and cautiously steered the car back toward town, and where there had once been music and danc- ing and adoration and sexual conquest, there was now only the wind blowing across a winter wheat field, and underneath its cold whistle, laughter.