Parts

[Bmichael]

This thread is for those parts of tales we’ve written –  inspired  beginnings (or middles and endings)  and flashes of brilliance that came out of nowhere – only to  mysteriously disappear as quickly as they came-  leaving us stranded at our keyboards.

Good writing, but orphaned without a “rest of the story”.

Check your files…show off some of that stuff. Who knows? Maybe now is the right time to complete it.

[Westerly_2]

Oh, ha ha, I guess I know which way our drifter will roll.

[Westerly_2]

Saying “Ow”

 

So often had Dusty been driven out of the house and into the crawlspace above the garage or the tool shed out back by the doings of his mom and dad. Mostly Dad, that engine of turmoil and noise, not so much his mom, who should have been driven out herself, you would think. Too stubborn. Too proud. Or maybe too icy and hard, like a glacier gaining momentum but seeming not to move at all.

            It was always something. Couple, three times a week. This time Dusty heard Pop sobbing in his room, just before his alarm went off for school. He supposed his mom must be awake hearing this, but he couldn’t tell.

            “Help me,” he heard his father groan.

            He didn’t hear his mother. Should he go? Help his father? He was 15 and strong enough if his father had fallen and hurt a leg. His father was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. His mother was covered up in bed, seemingly asleep, or faking it.

            “What happened, Pop?”

            “Go away and leave me alone,” his father said.

            So Dusty shrugged and went away. It was good he had a place to leave to – the salvation of school. He stared out the bus - the leaves a dusty yellow like they turned this time of year in these parts – and tried not to imagine the scene back there: his father saying, “Jesus, can’t you get off your lazy ass and give me a hand here?” and her saying “I’m tired of dealing with your bullshit. What is it this time?”

His father said “Ow” a lot. He was a sensitive specimen. “Ow, when he bumped his ankle, “Ow” when he stepped on grit barefooted, and “Ow” when he came on a bone in his stew.

…

            All was well when Dusty returned home those many hours later. Pop was strutting around not crippled, trying on duds and checking himself out. He was long and big and good-looking and sporting some pin-striped big shirt – designer – and stone-washed jeans – soft and full, like luxury itself.  They seemed to be going somewhere. Sure, their day off; the restaurant was closed Sunday and Monday. Pop tried on a few hats – this angle and that. Settled on a white brimmed hat with a colored band and a little feather. Mom clicked around in toreador pants and heels so high she could have hung the moon.

            Her first husband, before Dusty was born – he had met him a few times when he picked up his sister for visits and drove her to her college in Nevada – was a plain sort of guy. Plain in every way except for the tattoos which leaked out of his collar and sleeves. Dusty thought he could see the face of a diamondback ratter at his throat and its rattle on his bicep. He had a leathery face and wore his hair in 2 long braids down his back. He covered himself with old T shirts and jeans you didn’t check twice. Kept his mouth shut. Dusty figured his mom was looking for another type, and that she got all right.

           

[Marilyn]

Nice stuff, both of you! Alive with description and life. Good job! Now, back to the glam world of financial advertising ....

[Bmichael]

"Mom clicked around in toreador pants and heels so high she could have hung the moon."

...gasp!...oh my...can't breathe...help!...

:-)

[Bmichael]

Just like she said, it was ‘bout five miles when I saw the sign. At the back of the gravel lot was a small cinderblock building with two windows. Off to the right was a fence gate with a whole bunch of dozers ‘n shovels ‘n stuff behind it and a beat up old backhoe parked up front.

Someone was sittin’ in  one of the windows like he was at a desk or somethin’, and when I pulled in he looked up at me  for a second and then went back to what he was doin’. And then that boy, he did one of those cartoon things, where he was flappin’ his head around – up and down, back and forth. In a second, there was a bunch of faces in the other window…all of ‘em watchin’ me.

Well, I parked the Ford ‘bout twenty yards out and started walkin’ in when the front door came open and folks started pourin’ out. This one boy , he come up real fast on me, and the next thing I know is I’m flat on my back on that damn gravel with him sittin’ on my chest, and the sun beatin’ down on my eyes.

He was screamin’ at me, but I couldn’t tell what he was sayin…besides there was some rocks diggin’ in the back of my neck.

I looked up, and saw a bunch of shadow heads surroundin’ me. I remember thinkin’ that this must be what it’s like when you’re getting’ buried and folks are sayin’ goodbye and getting’ ready to start shovelin’ on you.

 

A voice said “Who are you?”

Before I could answer, the guy on my chest hauled off and slapped my head.

“ Dammit, hold off Bobby! Mister, who the hell are you and where’d you get that truck?”

“Name’s Marbry. I’m lookin’ for Jim.”

“Bobby…let him up. You found him.”

“ Mr. Jim, there’s been an accident.  The roof come down…there’s a lady trapped under it and…”

Bobby grabbed me by the collar and pulled me in.

“I couldn’t help her…too dangerous…she told me to take the truck and find you.”

“Is she hurt?”

“Maybe…she’s talkin’…says she’s pinned an cain’t move… told me to take the truck and  find you. You gotta hurry…it ain’t safe.”

“Bobby … let him go. Get on the radio … get Jake and Sam. They’re workin’ at the Stanley place…they can be there quick. You and Chuckie get over there right away…”

“Mr. Jim?”

He looked at me.

“Take that backhoe with ya…you gon’ need it.”

One of the guys took off runnin’ .”

Jim stopped and drew in his breath.

“Where’s the keys to the Ford?”

“In it.”

“Jeremiah, get the keys and stay here with this guy.”

“Mister…”

He was fixin’ to say somethin’, but it wouldn’t come out, which was fine with me because I was already tired of this crap. I had oatmeal cookies in my pocket, and a hot coke in my pack…and I knew for sure I was bleedin’ from Bobby’s tackle…it was time to go.

I felt bad for the old lady…I guess she was old, even if she  didn’t sound like it much… but then what the hell are you supposed to sound like when you’re trapped under a half-ton of roof …and when I saw her boy, Jim…shoot, he wasn’t no kid neither… but screw this… none of this was my concern… and then  I started thinkin’  them thoughts again while I was watchin’ them trucks and backhoe  pull out on  the highway…they come like a newsreel - one right after the other…things like that hateful, bible thumpin’ bastard at the diner with his slicked backed hair and bowtie, soaked through that white shirt…sweat bubbles on his top lip…holier than thou… all sure of himself…jumpin’ at the chance to be better’n me… I wanted to pop off on him right there…and then Bud, the bread guy…yeah…Bud…he surprised me, he did…I watched his eyes the whole time…that boy  was a thinker and a believer for sure…and I got away  this time in one piece. And then, the cop…in that raggedy ‘ol Plymouth…I know you was wantin’ that I would just go away…and I ‘preciate  the chance, because I got better things to do…but If I had done something…anything… like spit on your country ass sidewalk or pissed in the alley…you would have been forced to perform your sworn duty “to protect and serve” them fair citizens of Druck.

“Go on inside…get cleaned up…I’ll…”

He never finished.

Jim turned and quickly headed to his car.

“This yours, mister?”

Jeremiah tossed me my pack and walked towards the building.

Over his shoulder he hollered back, “C’mon inside, if ya want. Wanna pop?”

 

 

[Marilyn]

As always, great stuff! Sounds like a true hillbilly tale and well told it is. So what happens to the old lady??

[Westerly_2]

Well, well, so the drifter did do  "the right thing" and went to Jim for help after all. I wonder if he brings back the white truck or keeps on going.

[Bmichael]

Of course he did the right thing!

Just what kind of reprobate do you think the drifter is?

(Hint- find out in the next installment...heh, heh, heh...)

The old lady? What old la...oh!...yeah...her. Who cares?

jajaja!

[Westerly_2]

“Well, Duke. I took the missus bird-watchin’ like she wanted. Nature stuff.”

            “Manage to stand it all right, buddy?”

            “Better than I expected. Spotted a big ol’ Falcon nesting in a tree.”

            “really? Ain’t they about extinct?”

            “Endangered species, that’s for sure. Just a few left. Count back to 1970. That was the last year they enjoyed healthy numbers.”

            “Peregrine?”

            “Ford. I just love that kind of nature.”

            “What the…?”(heh,heh) “You had me going there for awhile, buddy. It fly up in that tree?”

[Bmichael]

Oh noooooooooo...Hahaha!!

[Bmichael]

Jeremiah opened up the pop machine, took one out and set it on the corner of the desk.

Nodding towards a door in the back, he said “You can clean up in there”.

When I got done, Jeremiah was gone. Not far I reckoned, and most likely watchin’ me from some hole in the wall or somethin’.

I started gettin’ this creepy feelin’ that this thing  with the old lady wasn’t  over yet and that I best be on my way while I could. I checked out the small refrigerator in the corner – found a pack of bologna and put it in the pack, grabbed the pop and left.

I was standin’ on the road for only a couple of minutes when this ol’ flatbed pulled over.

The driver, an old guy with long white hair, dressed in dirty overhauls, and a tore straw hat… never looked at me.

“I’m jest going a few miles, if ya wanna ride some. Hop in.”

I honestly had no idea what the old man was sayin’ but he was full of talk – runnin’ on and on about this n’ that…somethin’ ‘bout the government, his wife’s cookin’, guns, and lotsa other stuff and never once came up for air the whole time. I tried to answer a couple times but he wasn’t havin’ it, so I just sat back catchin’ the breeze an’ tryin’ not to laugh.

After awhile, he hollered.

“Damn! Missed muh turn” and slammed on the brakes. He didn’t even pull over - just stopped that rig in the middle of the road. “Gotta turn back, mister. You can get out here.”

I did, thanked him for the ride,  and watched him pull away. I was expectin’ him to drive up a little ways and turn around, ‘cept he never did. He just kept goin’ straight on until he disappeared down the road. Now, I ain’t had much to smile ‘bout lately, but the old guy brought one out. And anyway, I was out  of town and away from all that mess back there.

A couple hours later I was sittin’ in some trees a little off the road. It would be dark soon and I needed to find somewhere to camp. I was chowin’ down on the bologna  when this pick up passed by and suddenly slammed on the brakes. It came back, jumped the road and came up towards me.

I  picked up a rock.

The driver got out and started walkin’ to me. It was that guy from the construction place – Bobby. The one who  knocked me down in the parking lot.

I held up the rock.

“Easy mister. I’m not here for no trouble.”

“Whattya want?”

Bobby looked down at the ground for a minute let out a breath.

“I come to apologize for all that back there. I shouldn’t have done that. Are you ok?”

I didn’t answer. “How’s the old lady doin’?”

“That’s my grandma – she’s hurtin, but she’ll be ok.”

He nodded towards the rock. “You don’t need that, mister. I came out here to say thanks. The whole family’s lookin’ for you. You maybe saved her life. We’re grateful for what you did and want you to come back with me to…”

“Glad she’s ok…but I ain’t got time.”

“I figured…but we wanted you to have this.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash money.

“This will make things easier on your way.”

“Don’t come no closer.” I held up the rock.

“No, I won’t. I’ll just set it down here.”

He backed up a few steps.

“Listen, if you ever come through here…”

 

[Westerly_2]

Nice ending. Nice writing, Someone sent me Cormac McCarthy's Suttree? You know him? S'posed to be Faulkneresque. Never liked Faulkner. Too mannered. Dialect to the max. This Sutree, it's so depressing, full of condom-clogged creeks, (muddy and evil-smelling) and under-nourished people with rotted teeth. Yet, I can't look away, like an 18-carcrash on the interstate. You have to know the truth. And thank God it happened to someone else.

His writing is wonderful.  descriptions fresh and haunting - of a world you are glad you don't have to live in. Maybe check it out.