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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 7

     I drove to a spot on Fifth Street across from the Boulevard Lounge, walked across the street and started searching for Johnny Wells’ big Chevy. Found it in the back parking lot, nose-up to the rear door of the bar in a spot marked Management Only Violators will be Towed.

The blood pounded in my head.

I thought about going back inside but put the kibosh on that. I was too fucked up. I considered standing outside by the backdoor but a cold and relentless freezing drizzle was coming down—and even I knew enough to stay out of the rain.

I had to talk to Mary and say my piece. That was what Stephanie wanted.

The fuck did I care what Stephanie wanted?

I owed Mary.

Why is that?

Because she said she loved me.

Did she show any love on that stage tonight?

I don’t know.

She’s doing hard drugs. There’s a warrant out on her. She can’t be trusted. 

     What am I doing here then?

I don’t know. 

I should leave.

But now there she was.

Out came a steady stream of people. I watched Mary peel off to the side, reject an overzealous fan and stop alongside Wells’ car. She leaned against the bricks of the building, pulled a cig from the pocket of her most-likely-new black leather jacket, and fired up. Took a big drag and blew smoke into the rain. Then a deep pull of fresh air, holding it in for a few seconds, head tilted back.

I followed her gaze up to the streetlight. Shining, blinding, raindrops fell. I was almost to her before she saw me. Shock and a wry, groggy amusement played over her tired features but she still looked sexy in her black stockings and burgundy thigh-high skirt. I tried to say something but she beat me to the punch.

“You fucking loser,” she said with a snarl. “What are you doing here? You didn’t want anything to do with me. I’m a stripper—remember? And you’re just so damn good, aren’t you. Ain’t it that the same old story. Ain’t that how it is.” Her voice was metallic, like a spoon rapping on a counter top. “Now I got a real man, so why don’t you split before he comes out and kicks your ass. I don’t want him thinking I’d have anything to do with someone like you.” She pawed the ground with the toe of her knee-high black boot and looked away from me.

“What the hell are you talking about, Mary? You expect me to believe that shit? Or is this some weird way of punishing me for your own delusions?”

Coherence wasn’t coming easy for either of us.

Mary scowled and spit out her words: “You don’t have to have anything to do with me if you want—that’s fine.” There was moisture welling in the edges of her eyes and my chest was about to explode. “Why did you come here? Why did you do that to me?” Her voice cracked.

“I don’t know. Something came over me. I was drunk. The band was weird. My brain broke. Why do we need a reason? How about this thing with you and Wells? What about all those things you said about him before? They’re not true anymore? Stephanie told me a few things about Johnny, like he’s a baby raper, for one. Or maybe you knew that. Did you know that?”

“Steph’s just making that up because she wants Johnny back.”

“Popular guy for a grease ball. Why don’t you just split, Mary? Get out of this town for good.”

Who was saying these words? I wondered. Who was making this body move?

Surely not me.

“Steph is just saying it because she wants to be where I am. I’m tired of running. And Johnny gives me things—things I like. And I make good money. Everywhere I go—everyplace else—I always have to leave.”

“That’s such bullshit. How can you even say that? Can’t you see what Wells is trying to do?”

“Somebody looking for me?”

Wells was standing there in the rain sneering, his narrowed eyes locked on me. He flashed that thin and viciously gleeful grin I‘d seen once before. He was wearing the same ugly leather jacket and the same pointy-toed boots as that time at the Castaway. Screw baby raper, this guy was a killer. Crazy Harvey Dornan knew it but could no longer tell anyone about it.

I stared in Wells’ face like a drunken fifteen-year old defending his first love from the neighborhood bully. “Yeah, I am,” I said with as much bluster as I could muster.

Then his gloved left hand flashed out like a snake’s tongue and crushed my nose. My knees slammed down on the wet gravel. I spit blood and tried to clear my head. I’d been expecting the right hand. His fists were like lead. Then a boot crashed up into my chin and I saw green and red stars and everything went fuzzy. Too gone to beg for mercy, gang.

Goodbye, goodbye, I’m diving into this puddle.

Sounds and voices now—lots of voices—and scuffling in the gravel. Johnny was yelling. Mary was close to hysterical.

Out of my one good eye I saw some bikers dragging Wells back toward the door of the bar. It was Big Dog and Frank and some pals. They formed a ring around Wells and wouldn’t let him get to me.

Then a kind-eyed man in a light-colored golfing jacket helped me up off the ground and held me steady. He tried to keep from getting blood on his jacket but I think some got on there. “You’re in rough shape,” he said, studying me with concern. “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

“No, man, I’m all right,” I wiped away blood and mud and bits of gravel from my face with my sleeve. “That asshole just straightened out my crooked nose for me, that’s all.” I was about to puke on the guy’s nice jacket.

Pain of a different kind surged through me when I caught sight of those hurting brown eyes staring out from behind a row of cars. I saw tears through the rain.

“Why won’t you leave Johnny and I alone?” she yelled out, just a hint of panic at the back of her throat. “You know how it is. Why don’t you go away, you weirdo?” Then she gave me one last sad look that made me think this wasn’t over yet, turned and walked quickly back into the club.

The show must go on.

 

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 6

     “Can’t be pissing yourself away like a child,” said a deep voice in the darkness.

I jerked and turned in the direction of the voice. A tough looking old man in a bowler hat was frowning at me from ten yards away. He crossed his arms against his old fashioned clothes: wool topcoat, round-collar shirt, tie, Navy blue wool suit.

A bolt of lightning popped inside my temple like a soundless firecracker. “What’d you say to me? The fuck are you laughing at old man?” I waved the geezer away. “Get the hell out of here, you old bastard.” I bent over and scraped some mud off the ground and threw it at him. He moved aside before it got half way there.

The laughter got louder. Now it was inside my head.

Then I recognized him. It was James Wallace Waverly, a grandfather I had never known. His picture was on the wall when I was a kid. According to the stories I’d heard, he was a tough sonofabitch, a hard-bitten Englishman who worked as a bouncer on the trains in upper Michigan during the depression. Had to disarm and disembark freeloaders all the time. But he had died before I was born. And now he was standing right there in front of me.

This was some strong fucking acid.

“What are you doing here, old man? It ain’t Halloween. Why don’t you leave me alone? Everyone else sees Jesus, and I get you.”

“Screw Jesus,” snapped old Jim. “Jesus was a martyr. You have to be dead to be a martyr. You want to be dead—like me?”

Now his face was a skull, worms wriggling from the empty eye sockets.

I freaked and rubbed my eyes and looked again. This time he had a face, a face that was giving me the Look. The look you see on the pioneers’ faces in the photos in the museums. I always admired the Look but I’d never understood what was behind it.

“You trying to tell me that I’m a coward—taking the easy way out? Look at me. I’ve been beaten to shit. Knocked every which way. My marriage is long in the trash barrel and now Mary is playing house with a psychopath, and the Big Perv killed my friend. And these other guys, they—ah, hell. It’s just not worth it anymore. I don’t see the point of life.”

Again the laughter burning in my ears.

“What’s the point of death, son? Anything worth having is worth suffering for. Unless you’d rather give up, of course. It is your choice.”

“That is funny,” I said. “And trite. Do you like that word—trite? I went to college, y’know. I know a lot of words. And they’re all about to come spilling out here on the ground at any moment. What do you want with me? Welcoming me to the graveyard? Introducing me to the family?”

All I got was The Look.

I was close to him now. I took a swing at his head, a looping overhand right.

He disappeared.

Bad acid, probably. Indigestion maybe. Chemicals in the booze. Unhealthy lifestyle. Hormones in the hamburger. Could be anything.

Then the world jumped to the left. Then back to the right. Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. Whattsa matter, can’t you see straight?

      My stomach lurched; loins itched. Some kind of crazy energy came up from the ground. I felt it in my legs—then everywhere. Nostrils the size of Mason jars and my breath rushing like a hurricane. Ready to run with the wild dogs. Then the laughing again—no longer in my head maybe but I really couldn’t tell. Then I saw him across the street encircled by a million pulsating raindrops.

“No sex in the grave, boy,” he shouted as he toe danced in front of a boarded-up theater. I couldn’t remember ever seeing the building before.  Today’s feature was written in bold but fading letters on the peeling marquee: Waverly’s Demise.

More laughing seemed to come from behind me then but when I turned there was no one there. A strange electric buzzing, like from a recording, reverberated off the deserted asphalt and the empty buildings. Then I heard a wailing sound, at first getting stronger and increasingly mournful, before finally fading.

Then a harsh whisper: “The beast is on a short tether, boy.”

I looked everywhere. No Gramps. When I turned back around the theater began to crumble before my eyes. In an instant it was an empty lot with an old tire and a broken concrete block lying in the middle of dead weeds. The distant wailing sound came back again—as a siren this time—getting louder and coming my way. I ducked into the darkness and ran until my legs stretched out. Now everything was clear. Ever clear ever true. Running was good. You just had to have direction.

I got back to the car all ready to go.

 

(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 5

     Back in the womb now I started it up and drove around until I found a street lonely and dark enough. I parked next to a big black oak tree whose branches seemed to point at me accusingly. Across the street a vacant lot divided a row of dark little houses with their shades pulled down. I took a blast on the bottle and the whiskey swirled into the bottom of my gut, hot and shivery at the same time.

I felt myself sinking down, giving up. But I needed a smoke. A man needs a smoke. My matchbook said “Relax and Enjoy” but it was empty. I flipped open the glove box and rummaged for matches because the car lighter didn’t work. A sheet of green pyramid LSD fell out onto the torn rubber floor mat.

What the hell, I thought. Why not do some right now? Could it make things any worse? Always sick, always in trouble, always guilty—don’t get much worse.

I tore off a strip of the acid, sixteen hits at least. Washed them down with Windsor and laughed a bitter laugh like everybody’s fool. Then me, and my friends Whiskey Man and Mr. Cigs, went for a little walk—or stumble, as it were, around the empty streets. I could no longer feel the cold and the icy rain soothed the wounds on my face.

But could I save face in outer space without a trace of sanity?

In a time that seemed like an hour but could have been ten minutes, I came upon a boarded up church, a small, white, clapboard building with a bogus steeple on the roof. I walked toward the rear of the building with the intent of relieving myself. There was a strange metallic taste in my throat. Glands in my neck were going squirrelly. My brain was shifting gears like a sixteen-wheeler rolling down hill in a snowstorm. Putrid smoke from factories was thick in my nostrils. Cars on the bridge whined in my ears and the universe vibrated through me in intermittent waves. Lights on the hillside—miles away—hurt my eyes. Pain always there to remind me.

Bad thoughts tumbled out with the rushing urine: The High Bridge would be a good place to end it all. It would be a big deal—women would cry. What a rush, just walking up to the middle, cars zipping by like you’re not even there and you not caring about jackshit. Every time they whoosh by your heart just about explodes and a chill of fear grabs your balls. Up on top of the span, the wind would be blowing and you’d look down at the dark and icy water below and the voice would be screaming Jump. Jump you miserable coward. Jump.

You’d just go numb—it wouldn’t be that bad.

     Come on, what are you waiting for? Take the plunge. You’re outta here. Gone Johnson. People would be yelling. Horns would be honking. When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah, hurrah. The lights… the water… all around me they swirled. Inside me it swirled.

On the ground in front of me it swirled.

Jesus, it was a long goddamn piss.

I zipped up and pulled out the bottle and sucked hard on the whiskey.  Take me back to my daddy’s knee, sweet whiskey; take me back. 

     I knew if I stayed here much longer they’d have to change my name to Catatonic State. I could dye my hair orange….

 

(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 4

     I leaned against the side of a house and pushed my hair back off my forehead. I bent over at the waist, pressed my finger to my nostril and blew out bloody snot. Down the alley a neon-bathed rat scurried across the damp pavement.

After a moment of reconnaissance I cut through several backyards of garbage cans and rusty autos and moved quickly across the street, doubling back to my car. Beaten and kicked—kicked and beaten. Needles and pins-a.

I couldn’t make myself drive so I sat there and squeezed the steering wheel while my head reeled and whirled. Eventually I settled down a little.  I found a long butt in the ashtray and fired it up. Nicotine narcosis, baby, let’s have it.

Violated and dominated and kicked around like a diseased rodent—not to mention getting fucked in the ass—that shit will linger with you for awhile. That’s the shit I couldn’t take. That, and about five hundred other goddamn things, that were struggling to the surface like a swarm of pissed-off rattlesnakes. I couldn’t stand for any more abuse. Time to get even before the game got over. Time to stop running. You can only run so far before you realize you’re running from yourself.

I still had the stamp on my hand from the bar.

I tried in vain to figure it all out. What the hell do I get for trying to help somebody? My goddamn ass kicked. I should’ve gone to Jamaica.

Yeah, you shoulda, asshole, but it’s too late for that now. You’re in too goddamn deep. 

Maybe I could live in my car for a while. The automobile is like a rolling womb. You got wheels. You got door locks. You got the radio, heater—storage space in the trunk. You can sleep in your car; eat in your car, fuck in your car. Americans learn how to live out of their cars as teenagers. Why couldn’t I do it? Shit, I could park wherever I wanted. Go wherever I wanted. If anything bothered me I could just drive away.

Just me and my womb on wheels.

A man needs something to drink if he’s going to live in his car. So I struggled over to the now painfully throbbing Viking Liquor sign, went in the store and bought a pint of Windsor Canadian and a pack of Kools from the thick-haired clerk. I didn’t even like brown liquor and I was trying to quit smoking so clearly this was some kind of self-destructive urge like all the cool rock stars had. The clerk gave me a funny look for a second, like maybe I smelled bad, which I probably did. Looked like hell, too.

 

(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 3

     This time I moved directly to the foot of the stage. Men grabbed and shouted at Princess Mary but she stayed just beyond their reach—thrusting and tantalizing—occasionally coming close enough to touch and then darting backward. The room rose to a fever pitch. The band hit the crescendo then crashed to a halt. Mary bent over at the waist with her back to the audience and pulled down those crimson panties. Shivers shot up and down my spine. The mob roared approval. Something in my head broke.

I was squeezed in between two guys in suits when the next song started up. Mary looked down at me, her body naked, face like a mask. She saw me but I couldn’t read her. Was it love? Disgust? Pain? Embarrassment? Now I was just one of the pack. I wanted so badly to taste her. Then she was close to me, leaning over slightly, saying something I couldn’t quite hear through the noise. I grabbed her ankle and squeezed it—softly at first. It was so warm and smooth. I couldn’t make myself look up. I stared down at the stage and squeezed a little harder. She tried to pull away. “No, Keith, don’t. Please stop.” She barked it at me. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Let go.”

Then a fifty-pound bee stung my right ear and a horse kicked my left kidney. Next thing I knew I was saying hello to everybody’s shoes. I tried to scramble away on my knees and a boot popped out of nowhere and collided with my ribs. Then another stung my mouth. I kissed the ground. Star showers everywhere, man, funny electric shocks in my neck. Then two guys pulled me off the floor and shuffled me away. I was spitting blood, not fighting back.

They dragged me across the room. One bouncer slapped me across the back of the head. I struggled free and made a dash for the door. No bum’s rush for this kid. I burst out the door and hit the sidewalk running and headed for the darkness. Shouts and laughter were soon behind me. I turned into a dark alley, walked down half a block, stopped and listened. It was quiet. Streetlights reflected off the puddles of rainwater. I walked another little bit and listened some more.

Still quiet.

(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 2

The hounds hooted like it was raccoon season as Mary strutted out on the stage, rocking it in red stiletto heels with sexy little straps around the ankles. The place exploded with applause and whistles and rebel yells.  Red, red roses sparkled on her shiny lavender robe. Little stars glittered in her hair.

My Queen of the May.

The feeling was indescribable—so much mixed together. I was breathing heavily; swaying back and forth and staring like a stage-side lunatic at Altamount as the band jumped crisply into “Season of the Witch.”

Mary undid the robe, slid it off her bare shoulders and tossed it to the floor. She shimmied inside lingerie the color of blood. She danced. She glided. She shook it. She unhooked her bra and freed her delicious round breasts. The junkie singer hissed those familiar words about rabbits in the ditch and hippies trying to make it rich. Mary lip-synched and played the hounds like a ringmaster. My gut wrenched as waving hands with bills clutched tightly in anxious fingers swayed at her feet like a brood of praying mantis. I couldn’t take much more—that I knew right then and there. I was aroused—watching her move—but it felt real weird.

Pushing my way through the crowd toward the stage, I had second thoughts. I sat down in a vacant chair at a table near the stage so I could think. A fat guy was across from me, his huge forearms resting on the table. He looked at me like he was King Shit.

“I’m just taking a little rest,” I said.

“Yeah, well, rest your fucking ass somewhere else, faggot. That’s my buddy’s chair.”

“Fuck you, fat ass.” I jumped up and jostled back into the crowd and started weaving my way toward the alley-side door. I expected the fat man to be hot on my trail but he never moved. Too much cholesterol, I guess.

I went outside and headed for my car but a half block before I got there I turned around and went back the way I came. Back to face the music.

(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

Read Full Post »

In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 1

There were cars parked everywhere. I slid the Olds into a spot about two blocks away from the club. Waves of red light pulsed from a giant neon LIQUOR sign behind me, bouncing off the rear view mirror like warning beacons.

     I hit the sidewalk and the damp air filled my lungs. The booze was wearing off too quickly and I was starting to feel the pain. The sounds of traffic whirled in my head as I pulled open the red upholstered door and entered the hazy world of The Boulevard Lounge.

     I paid my two bucks and got my hand stamped and moved slowly through the crowd. An amply endowed black chick was gyrating in a G-string on the stage while baying hounds at her knee level paid money to stick fingers up her snatch. I watched as she squeezed her breasts together and ground her pelvis against the intruding digits. Over to stage right the band did a loud and sloppy version of “Born to be Wild.” I ordered a double Smirnov on the rocks.

     “Bartender,” I asked the young man as he set the squatty glass in front of me, “what time does Princess Mary do her thing?”

     “She comes on around midnight. Last show’s at two.”

     “Well, I guess it’s worth waiting for—L.A. Princess and all.”

     “Yeah,” he said. “Some nights she really puts on a show.”

     Squirming, squirming, squirming. You can’t do anything about it when you got that kind of squirm going. I gritted my teeth and poured down the booze. My head got heavy. Discretion took flight. The baying at the stage front continued. Voices got louder; sweat beaded on my forehead. After what seemed like forever the hands on the clock finally joined together at the twelve. Shortly thereafter the band started up a grinding version of Dylan’s “Just Like a Woman.” At the chorus, the thin, pale, sunken-eyed lead singer would rasp: “She sucks, just like a woman. She fucks, just like a woman. But she tastes, just like a little girl.

     Surely the devil was in the building.

(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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CHAPTER 4, Excerpt 12

Just north of Corpus Cyn pulled to the shoulder to make a call, believing it was unsafe to talk and drive at the same time. Should she call Jean and seek sanctuary? Better than Daddy, but it was always the same at Jeannie’s house: First came the wine or beer, followed by smiling sympathy and understanding, and then eventually the unasked for advice and the cracks about naivety and being a pushover. So damn it; that was no good, either.

Cyn put the phone down on the seat and chewed at her lower lip. She was feeling a curious mix of apprehension and exhilaration. Wasn’t the Fourth of July yet, just early April, but today was definitely Independence Day. Taking a deep breath and letting her senses take over, something she’d learned in yoga class, Cyn felt the rush of traffic going by and the heat coming through the windows of the Toyota. Gazing out the windshield, she saw the big Northgate Mall sign up ahead towering above everything else.

Maybe something is guiding me, she thought. But there was still an empty space where her plans should be. She’d just have to keep the faith and take advice from that Kacey Musgraves’ song, the nice Texas girl singing about following her arrow wherever it points. But to follow arrows you need a little cash and Cyn only had fifty dollars in her purse—two twenties and two fives—and three credit cards she didn’t want to use because she knew from the crime shows that law enforcement could trace the receipts and see where you’ve been. The joint checking account still had the household money in it but she was hesitant to use that for the same reason—Trooper Dan might come looking.

Ten minutes later Cyn was drifting through the air-conditioned comfort thinking everyone in the mall looked strange today. She found an ATM and slid her card in the slot. A cash advance would keep her free from them all, Dan and Jean and Dad and Mom. And for now that’s what she wanted.

Needed.

Watching those crime shows with Dan, sometimes Cyn would imagine herself a character in the drama. What would she do; how would she feel? And now here she was, back in the car, cash advance safely tucked away in her purse and feeling strung out. Not exactly sure what strung out meant, thought it had something to do with drug addiction, and that certainly wasn’t the case with her, but still she felt stretched out and worn thin and on edge and directionless. “Strung out” seemed to capture the essence of her being at the moment.

Cruising aimlessly now, she was fighting off a little envy. Hard not to envy the people living in these beautiful homes surrounded by lush foliage. They had beach and water access, luxury cars in the driveway—what’s not to like?

Cyn didn’t like feeling envy, one of the seven deadly sins, and told herself it was only the surface of things she was seeing. One shouldn’t be fooled by superficial illusions because what went on behind closed doors could paint a totally different picture. And, in Cyn’s experience, often did.

She smiled recalling her first ride through Corpus Christi, nearly twenty years ago, the family relocating from Minneapolis for her father’s new job with the tire company. How the feelings of awe and envy started for her then, sun, water, sand and palm trees offering up a rich and colorful contrast to the bleak snow-covered plains of her former home in Minnesota. And no, Cyn hadn’t made it to her own dream house yet, but that kind of thing mattered very little to her. Six years ago, being Dan Henning’s wife and the mother of his child was all she wanted, having chosen Dan over her other suitor at the time, Roy Owen. Bunky, they called him. Biggest car dealer in Corpus now (Owen Toyota, Bunky’s BMW, Roy’s Royal Rides), and he owned one of the biggest, gaudiest homes in town.

Well, Cynthia had made her choice and vowed to make it work and tried her darndest for six years and now where was she? She would gladly do without the waterfront mansion if Dan still possessed what he had back then, although, to tell the truth, she could no longer identify exactly what that was. Maybe it was a lack of something? Seemed like Dan was carrying extra baggage lately. Yes, that could be it.

Possibly things had started eroding after Danny was born. And yes, Cyn had read the magazine articles about first-time mothers losing their sexual desire, young women refocusing their lives around their child at the expense of matrimonial intimacy, but she didn’t think that was her situation. What it was, Dan started coming home with the scent of other women on him. Sometimes faint, sometimes stronger. And then the stuff really hit the fan with the incident with the prostitute, the cell phone picture and Dan’s suspension, the incident putting a spotlight on the problem and making it hard to deny—although Cyn had tried really hard.

God.

(To be continued)

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CHAPTER 4, Excerpt 11

On her way to Corpus, traveling along I-37 in her ’96 Toyota Camry—same model that made the headlines about accelerators sticking a few years ago but she never had any problems with it—Cynthia was picturing her parents in their elegant home. Daddy moving with his stiff-backed posture and mother trailing behind him like a zombie, the poor woman seemingly reduced to only neediness now, independent thought having left her some time ago.

The image wasn’t very appealing.

No, she wouldn’t go to her parent’s house; she was thirty years old for God sakes. She needed to find someplace Dan wouldn’t think of right away. But it was kind of weird, because as much as she wanted to feel angry, Cyn couldn’t help but remember better times, seeing her and Dan together on the couch watching television cop shows like Justified and Graceland, Dan frequently hooting he’d like the freedom to shoot miscreants like that Raylan Givens on Justified. And Cyn saying Timothy Olyphant who played Raylan was sure a cutie, maybe a hottie, jerking Dan’s chain a little.

But those kinds of moments didn’t come around much anymore and you had to make the best of things. And sometimes wisdom comes from unexpected places. It was because of those cop shows that Cyn got the idea to purchase a prepaid cell phone at Walmart, (what they called a “burner” on TV). Now with the burner she could call people without fear of Dan getting to the phone company records. You had a possessive cop for a husband; you had to take steps. She’d gone into the Walmart with the idea of using an alias for the purchase—April Flowers—and was a little disappointed when the pimple-faced kid at the counter didn’t even ask for a name, taking her money and ringing it up without so much as a second look.

So, with her new phone, she could avoid being traced. But now the question was what untraceable act, exactly, should she commit, since she had the opportunity? Her sister kept insisting she get down to Padre Island and hit the beaches, Jeannie telling her, Pick up a bikini and a thermos of mai tais and see what comes along, implying, it seemed, strange men. But Cyn suspected Jean’s advice was the booze talking, her older sister possibly an alcoholic—a functioning one, yes—but frequently displaying some of the signs discussed at Al Anon meetings, Cyn having attended a few last year in an unsuccessful attempt at understanding her husband’s daily boozing.

They told you at Al Anon—kind of a class in Alcoholism 101—that boozers often tried to control those around them with shame and guilt and subtle attacks on self-esteem. Recalling past encounters, Cyn thought it sort of sounded like Jeannie. Like the time Jean called her Cynthia Moonbeam because she’d taken a Transcendental Meditation class, although she quit after only three sessions because Dan said they couldn’t afford it. Or that time Jean criticized her for not having a full-time job like “normal women.” And she’d sure never forget the time she saw a photo of Jennifer Aniston in a magazine and made the mistake of saying she thought Jennifer’s hair and hers looked alike, Jean then telling anyone who would listen that Cyn believed she was just like Jennifer Aniston. God, the way Jean could twist things. And the way everyone in the family seemed to accept what she said as gospel—it was enough to make you want to scream. Dan could play the same game, proving it by claiming he needed booze for job stress and telling Cyn, “Men are under real stress; not the neurotic crap housewives have in their heads.”

But, well, aren’t all men controlling like that? Make a case for her father too, truth be told, and he hadn’t had a drink in years. Still dishing out the barbs though. Al Anon also had a name for that: a dry drunk. Strange concept but it made some sense when you thought about it.

(To be continued)

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EXCERPT 12

Several days after the big poker game had come and gone, the first sunny spring-like day of the year hit town. And wouldn’t you know it, man, I had to work my other job: clerk at goddamn Wadena Book, the Twin Port’s only dirty bookstore.

About ten-thirty on a Saturday night and things were pretty slow. I had the glass front door propped open a crack to let in the soft night air. The juices were beginning to flow again and I was feeling pretty good. I leaned back on the rear legs of the hard and uncomfortable chair and sensually fondled a Dunlop red-stitch softball. My eyes flicked restlessly around the brightly lighted room. All the gash and dick and plastic genitalia burned the mucus on my eyeballs and I couldn’t rest my gaze.

I was rubbing my eyes with my knuckles when Sammy Cross walked in arm and arm with a gorgeous girl, the babe about five-six or seven, medium length auburn hair, a gorgeous slinky bod and dreamy brown eyes. Kind of girl that makes your dick hard, your heart soft and turns your brain to mush—just the way I liked it.

My mouth must have fallen open or something because now Cross and the girl were both grinning up at me. Then the light bulb went on in my head and I knew it was the girl from the cab and the Castaway and my dreams, this time without the tortoise-shell shades.

I said, “Sam—what are you doing here? And who’s your friend?”

And now I was embarrassed by my surroundings.

Her blue painted eyelids were at half-mast. A cigarette dangled from her long fingers. She looked me over with an appreciative smirk. My heart thumped like a big bass drum. Surely she must remember me, thought I, but she didn’t let on.

Sam was grinning like a satanic Teddy Bear. “Keith,” he said, “Let me introduce you to Mary.”

Always had manners, that guy.

I said, “Hi,” and a thousand worms wriggled in my gut.

“Hi,” she said, with a sexy half smile.

Then she took a walk around the shop, checking out the fuck-and-suck rags in a wave of perfume and tobacco smoke. I couldn’t keep from staring. Her expression remained the unreadable half smile. Crimson nails, a silver and turquoise bracelet on one wrist and no rings. Breasts pushing firmly against a thin black sweater, butt moving sweetly in tight flare jeans. Some funky platform shoes, an oversize Levis jacket and the picture was perfect, like I’d seen in a dream or maybe an album cover.

“Jesus, Sam,” I said in a whisper. “Where’d you find her?”

“Right over in your back yard, Keitho my friend. She’s a peeler at the Castaway.”

“Jesus—she is the one. She was in my cab. You’re dating her then?”

“I’m trying to—but not tonight—she just dropped in over at Delaney’s with a couple friends while I was sitting there having a few pops. I’ve been trying all night to get her to go to this big party with me, but she says she won’t go with just me alone. Unresolved issues of trust, I suspect. The little girl is not as easy as I had hoped—and after all the cash I’ve stuffed down her g-string.” He peeked up at me for a reaction and got none. “No, I’m kidding,” he said, “really what the deal is, she’s got two friends with her over at the bar and we thought you would be the perfect escort. I told her Carla and Charlene would think you’re dreamy.”

“Fuck you. What do these other chicks look—”

“Why do you work in this place?” Mary said, wide-eyed and innocent, upon her return to the front of my lofty perch above the sea of smut.

I was on a raised platform, two feet above the rest of the floor, sitting behind the cash register at a small lectern. Everybody had to look up to me to pay for the porn. There was a sense of power in that chair. If the customers were feeling guilty when they looked up at you, you were the High Priest of Porn about to pass approval on their sins.

This girl had somehow turned the tables on me.

“Cause I know the manager and the pay is good,” I said, and felt my face reddening.

“How much do you make?” she asked, still with the same expression. I loved the way her hair swept back in wings.

“Five dollars an hour, cash.”

“But minimum wage is only two and a quarter.”

“Well, actually I get three bucks an hour, but I ring up at least a ten dollar no sale every shift and put it in my pocket. Hell, the cops could walk in and bust me at any minute. I deserve a little hazard pay, you know? And besides, this place is owned by Ferris Alexander—I should steal more.”

“Yeah, Waverly is a real prince,” Sam chimed in. He put his hand on the girl’s sexy shoulder. “See what I told you, Mary, have you ever seen such an innocent, honest, trustworthy boy as Keith. Just look at that boyish face. Why, the boy won’t even steal too much from Minnesota’s pornography king, who’s so rich he shits quarters. What a guy you are, Wavo.”

And then two forty-something men in worn trench coats came through the door. Yes, it’s true, men in trench coats. At the sight of Mary they tensed up and began to paw around the room like water buffaloes at an occupied water hole.

I lowered my voice. “What’s this party you’re talking about, Sambo?”

“Over in Bay City at Tony’s Cabaret. Then a private after-hours bash at Peter McKay’s digs. Big party, man. All the hipsters will be hanging.”

“Are you kidding me? Tony’s Cabaret is a gay bar. And fucking Peter McKay—what’s his deal? And how did you manage an invite? McKay didn’t look too enamored with you after the poker game, if I may say so. In fact, it seemed like he wanted to bust open your wise-ass skull, if my perception was at all accurate, you low-life sonofabitch.”

“That maybe so. That maybe so, Keith, my man, but big Peter has seen the error of his ways. I’ll have you know that we are now business associates. Time moves along, my son. By the way, he mentioned you. Said you should come to the shindig, if I saw you. Said he might have a few ideas for you.” Sam paused and stared at a plastic vagina hanging from a peg-board on the west wall. “Um, ah, and y’know, Nick is getting a little anxious to see some kind of positive sign from you, if you know what I mean.”

“Fuck Nick,” I said.

A party given by the powerful Peter McKay, beautiful women at my side—now here was the start up the ladder I’d been waiting for. Nothing was going to bring me down.

Sam gave me a look, said, “Big talk.”

“Fuck you, too,” I said.

Mary stood with her hip cocked to the side. “We have to get the girls, don’t forget, Sam,” she said. Looking up at me with those fascinating, heavy-lidded peepers when she said it.

“How could I forget those two,” Sam said, as he took Mary’s arm and sashayed toward the door. “See ya, Waverly,” he said. “Be there or be square.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I shouted after them. “Don’t leave without me.”

The clock said 10:45.

“You’ll have to make up your minds, guys,” I said to the water buffaloes as they relaxed and approached the desk “We’re closing in five minutes.”

“I thought it said midnight on the front door,” said the guy with an oval head made me think of an egg. Had a soft-boiled look about him.

“Yeah, we just got here,” whined the other one, his skin the color of bone. “I’ve got a whole pocket of quarters here for the movies.” He lifted up the side pocket of his gray overcoat and jangled it at me. He had long dirty fingernails.

“Boss has to come in and do inventory tonight, guys. Sorry.”

“Well, all right then,” said the guy with the fingernails, looking around.  “I’m gonna buy a magazine. Wait a minute, would you.”

He picked out a spectacular photo collection of extra-large breasted women entitled Big Mamas. I rang up No Sale and set the ten-spot on the counter in front of the register. Fuck Ferris Alexander. A man needs a few bucks in his pocket when he’s going out with a pretty lady or two.

(To be continued)

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