Today is the 36th in a series of posts by San-Diego-based writer Thomas Shess, who has decided to keep a journal on his journey to find a publisher for his novel.

An Excerpt-A kind agent, who still turned me down but did suggest that I run an excerpt of my novel in The Zoo to get more feedback said: "Don't lose focus of what you're trying to do." Why not? After 36 weeks at Mediabistro.com, here's my first excerpt in this space: By way of background, the setting is modern day San Francisco/North Beach/Corner of Broadway and Columbus Avenue/Midnight:

Vultures To Go--Draper Webster finished the to-go burrito that his partner Paul Gallagher bought from Chato's Mazatlan on Bay Street but gave up after one bite. The young paramedics were opposites. Webster, a string bean resident alien from Jamaica was teamed with the short, stocky Gringo, who was prematurely balding and prone to awkward comb overs.

"How can you eat that shit?" Gallagher asked. They were taking their night shift lunch break and had parked in the alley next to Clementine's, one of the half dozen strip joints nearby.

"You bought it."

"I thought you said carne asada was supposed to be good."
"It is, it's great," Webster said and rolled the brown bag into a ball before tossing it out the rolled down window into the wet alley, "Food is food. Just because you don't like it don't mean it's bad."

"At least it was free," Gallagher sat back in his seat. The pair had lifted $20 out of $400 that was in the purse of a traffic accident victim they had recently transported to St. Vincent's Emergency Room.

By late evening, the City was reeling from a day-long rainstorm. Neon lights kaleidoscoped in colored rivulets down the windshield and obliterated their view of the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Gutter runoff had reached curb high along the busy street that ran near Fisherman's Wharf.

The radio squawked loudly, startling them both and ordered them to roll down Columbus Avenue toward Broadway. "A citizen was lying in the middle of the street," the dispatcher said the familiar monotone that would still sound drab announcing the end of the world

Gallagher flipped on the siren and the red, blue and yellow emergency lights.

Within minutes they reached Columbus and Broadway.

Honking horns coming from several different vehicles quickly caught their attention. Webster stuck his head out his passenger side window.
Both heard a woman scream, "He's fallen down on the street. Stop the traffic! Stop the traffic!"

Another horn blasted nearby. Traffic on four-lane Broadway halted.

Another scream!

This time Gallagher saw a brunette waving her arms hysterically in the middle of a west bound traffic lane. A blue and white taxi swerved and skidded 180 degrees before bouncing over the north side curb.

More horns.

"I see him," Gallagher started the engine.

Webster switched on the ambulance's revolving blue and white emergency lights.

Slowly, Gallagher nosed the ambulance forward between a narrow slot between stopped cars.

Webster didn't wait for Gallagher to stop. He quickly yanked on a pair of elastic safety gloves then jumped out the door carrying his emergency kit.

A loud screeching of brakes echoed off the old buildings. Those nearby heard the familiar thud of metal hitting metal. Half a block away a drunk driver somehow missed seeing the brake lights of a dozen stopped cars.

A thin woman wearing a waitress apron screamed: "Over here." She pushed the rain out of her face, "he's not breathing!"

Webster straddled the hulking African-American in the $2,000 silk suit before jamming two vinyl gloved fingers down the man's throat. The longest 15 seconds in recorded history passed before the man vomited.

"Bingo, he's with us," said Webster.

"How in the hell did all these cars miss him?" Gallagher asked then answered his question, "Maybe they just bounced off."

The Asian waitress stood up and backed away and slipped unnoticed back into the nearby diner.

Grunting, the paramedics lifted the 300-pounder onto the white sheeted gurney.

"Where are the cops?" the balding paramedic groused. Someone from Northern Station Precinct four blocks away could have run over here in that amount of time, they both figured.

Draper made a decision. "We're not gonna wait around for them. Let's take him in."

Both men had noticed the victim's flashy diamond stud earrings sparkling in the dim light offered by the gaudy neon signs lining Broadway.

Meanwhile back at The Zoo, the author of this column is searching for a publisher or a literary agent for my recently fine tuned first novel, a thriller based in San Francisco loaded with plenty of suspense, a damn good story, and a plot that works-Drop me an e-mail for a look at the first 20 pages.