Tuesday, May 27, 2008
"Feels Like A Monday" Tuesday Morning Bilge Call
Hot coffee and ice tea are waiting for those so inclined. There should be some day-old doughnuts in the oven. Clean up after your own self.
Weather-wise, it looks like we've settled into the usual summer pattern here in central Texas: highs in the mid-90's, lows around 70 with a chance of afternoon thunderstorms with just enough variation to give the weather forecasting folks comething to talk about.
In case some sharp-eyed reader was inclined to ask about the outcome of the shopping trip I mentioned yesterday, the one with the wife and junior daughter units to buy a new clothes dryer, please don't. That's a very painful subject. Check out today's Word of the Day to learn all.
It's long been fashionable in some circles to refer to police officers as pigs. Now one wonders what those folks would call a family of crook catching boar hogs.
BERLIN (Reuters) - German police pursuing a car thief through a dark forest turned rescuers when the man became cornered by a family of angry wild boar.
Officers caught the man's passenger after the pair rammed into a squad car on a cross-country chase and leapt from the stolen Opel, police in the eastern city of Schwerin said.
But they initially lost track of the 18-year-old driver during the night-time pursuit when he fled deep into the forest.
"Then he ran into the family of boars, and the head of the family squared up to him," a police spokesman said on Friday. "So he stood there, put his hands up, and called for help."
Officers rescued the man from the boars, then arrested him.
THOSE WERE THE DAYS
1937 - Ceremonies marking the opening of the Golden Gate Bridge were held in San Francisco, CA. The bridge has been called one of the greatest engineering marvels in the world.
1957 - That’ll be the Day, by The Crickets and featuring Buddy Holly, was released by Brunswick Records. On September 14th, the tune became the most popular record in the U.S. It was the first hit for Holly and his group after two previous releases went nowhere on Decca Records in 1956.
1968 - George Halas retired as head coach of the Chicago Bears. Halas spent 48 years as coach of the Bears and led them to six National Football League titles.
CHART TOPPERS
1955
Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White - Perez Prado
Unchained Melody - Les Baxter
Learnin’ the Blues - Frank Sinatra
In the Jailhouse Now - Webb Pierce
1963
If You Wanna Be Happy - Jimmy Soul
Surfin’ USA - The Beach Boys
Foolish Little Girl - The Shirelles
Lonesome 7-7203 - Hawkshaw Hawkins
1971
Joy to the World - Three Dog Night
Brown Sugar - The Rolling Stones
Me and You and a Dog Named Boo - Lobo
I Won’t Mention It Again - Ray Price
WORD OF THE DAY
penury • \PEN-yuh-ree\ • noun
*1 : a cramping and oppressive lack of resources (as money); especially : severe poverty
2 : extreme frugality
Example Sentence:
As a young man Uncle Leonard endured great penury, and though he later became a successful business owner, he never forgot the hardships of his youth.
Have a ball, y'all.
Bayou Bill
Labels: shopping, wild boars
Friday, May 16, 2008
WORKERS WRITE: Tales From The Clinic
Tales From The Clinic
Anthology - Paperback
184 pages
$8.00 U.S.
ISSN: 1556-715X
The Dark Marks by Cortney Davis
Third Shift by Amy Simonson
Drawing Blood by David Yost
Your Test Is Positive by Lisa Rutledge
Last of the Richardsons by Peggy Duffy
The Kiss by Bill Fullerton
You Lose a Few by Anna Sykora
A Voice in the Room by River Adams
Tests and Measurements by Dory Adams
There Are No Poems at Hospital Management Meetings by Cortney Davis
Melon by Lewis K. Schrager
Near-Death Experience by Bruce Hillman
The Call of the Rain Crow by John Sparks
The Notebook by Carol Scott-Conner
The Thirteenth Floor by Davi Walders
Blue Cubicle Press http://www.bluecubiclepress.com/index.htm
has just release, Workers Write! Tales from the Clinic, which includes, The Kiss, a story by your modest scribe (that's me.)
This is a very good thing for this "yet to be published" inchoate novelist, since, The Kiss, is a short story version of chapter one from my first novel, A Brief Affair. Now all I need is for some far-sighted editor, publisher, or agent to pick up a copy of, Workers Write! That's not much to ask for, is it?
So here's the deal; for only eight dollars you can get an anthology of tales with a medical theme that includes a short story of mine, The Kiss, a semi-autobiographical account of a more-or-less actual event.
What a bargain!
While copies will be available at more discerning bookstores, to order online just click on this link and pull out your credit card.
http://www.bluecubiclepress.com/books.htm
Beaming Bayou Bill
Labels: hospital, NYC, patient, short story anthology, stolen kiss, student nurse, VA hospital, veteran, Vietnam
Thursday, April 10, 2008
MOONLIGHT FLIGHT - short story
This is another short story based on a chapter from my novel, We Danced to Ray Charles. It occurs towards the end of both summer and the novel, several chapters after the last few stories I've posted. As always, any comments, whether brickbats or bouquets will be welcome.
Bayou Bill
==
Moonlight Flight
by Bill Fullerton
There were five of them back in the summer of ‘68.
All were life-long friends.
But everything changes.
By the time they reached the bluff above Bear Lake, started a smoky fire, put on insect repellant, opened the first round of beers, and found comfortable spots, it was getting dark. The ominous clouds that had been building all afternoon were keeping the temperature semi-reasonable and hurrying the Louisiana twilight.
"Do you think it's going to rain?" Mark Cahill was staring up at the indecisive clouds. For the big, congenial, frat-rat this was less a question than a conversation starter.
Tall, bearded Walt Marshall, who by virtue of being in his mid-twenties was the "old man", tilted his head back to study the dark forms. "Nope. Those clouds are just teasing us."
"I sure hope you're wrong." In a group of competitive athletes, Willie Carter, son of a black preacher, was the best. "Football practice starts next week. Two-a-days are rough enough without having a heat wave adding to your misery."
"Don't forget the drought." Lanky, sandy-haired Bob Hemphill grinned at his old friend. "Hundred degree heat plus no real rain since June means that practice field is going to be extra hard."
"Thanks for reminding me, old buddy."
"Heat stroke and skin abrasions build character," said Walt. "What kinda team's Grambling going to have this year, anyway?"
"It's like I've been telling these guys all summer," Willie gave the group his big, teasing grin, "we’re gonna be so good, it'll remind folks of when yours truly quarterbacked the mighty Black Knights of Kisatche High to the state title."
"You know, it's a good thing you're leaving town this weekend," said Bob, speaking over the chorus of jeers and hoots of derision. "One more crack like that and we might have to take stern measures."
Willie stuck out his chin in a show of mock belligerence. "Oh yeah? Like what?"
"Like, do you remember what happened when we heard you made first-team, all-state?"
"How could I forget? I thought you guys were talking about taking me out for a steak but instead, you threw me in the lake."
"We had to do something to keep you from getting the big head," said Amy Marshall. A classic green-eyed, red-haired beauty, she was Walt's kid sister and the group's unofficial ringleader.
"Sure y'all did," said Willie. "But next time, when I win All-American, please wait until summer. Believe me, that water's a just a tad chilly in April."
Mark motioned toward the lake. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, we'd be willing to start practicing right now."
"Maybe later. I've already had one bath this week. But if any of you want to check out the lake water for me, feel free."
While everyone else kept talking, Amy opened a bag of potato chips and looked at the four men sitting nearby. Her three best friends and the big brother she'd almost lost in Viet Nam.
For her, this was a perfect moment. Well, it would be perfect if Mark weren't dating that damned Bebe Boudreaux. Why the hell was he so nuts about someone like that? Sure she was tiny and cute, but his friends all despised her. Willie thought she was a racist, Bob thought she was a bitch. Walt thought she was trashy. Amy didn't think, she knew Bebe was all of those things.
What's more, she would be so bad for Mark. If they ever got serious, something Bebe obviously wanted, it would break up the group. Both of those were things she wanted to avoid. Besides, knowing Mark was in Bebe's crosshairs had reminded Amy just how much she wanted him for herself. It’d been that way since last spring. At a party, Mark had found her alone and crying. Both had recently broken up with long-time steadies. When he took her in his arms, they began kissing.
She’d felt something very special, and had wanted to feel more. But then Mark had stopped. So what did that mean? And how did she really feel about her best friend?
Amy had counted on having the summer to sort out her feelings. But with Bebe moving in on Mark, she knew time was running out.
So far, she didn’t seem to be making any progress at getting Bebe out of the picture. Part of her problem was she and Mark were best friends, always had been. And so far, she hadn't been able to change his point of view towards her.
Once the potato chips were finished, she quietly blew into the empty container, twisted the opening shut, and then slammed the inflated bag into her palm. There was a loud, satisfying "bang" followed by startled cries. Amy had their attention. "Do you guys remember when we all went skinny-dipping that summer before junior high?"
The first person to answer was Walt. "I do. It was right after I took the picture of y'all holding that big stringer filled with all those little-bitty fish."
"They weren't that little," she insisted.
"Maybe not, but y'all were so grungy, I told you to get in and wash off. I just wish I'd had some film left to take pictures of that scene."
"Talk about your blackmail," said Mark.
"Speak for yourself," said Bob. "I looked like a young Greek god." He paused to duck the initial volley of objects aimed at his head, and then continued. "But best I recall, you and Willie were a tad chunky and Amy could have used a pound or two."
Skinny and self-conscious when in junior high, Amy's height to weight ratio had long since reached a tall, willowy near-perfection. She grinned at Bob's remark, but continued talking to her brother. "That day, why didn't you come in with us?"
Walt shook his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe I felt too old. I was already in high school, remember?"
As the four guys kidded each other about skinny-dipping, Amy wondered what she should say next. As the group's only female, she could either turn the conversation onto another, safer subject or keep it heading towards the obvious outcome. She glanced around the group until her gaze came to rest on Mark. He looked over and gave her his familiar, reassuring grin. It didn’t register. By then she'd made up her mind.
She looked back at her brother. "Walt, would you still feel too old?"
"How should I know?" he said, giving her a surprised look. "Were you planning on jumping in the lake?"
Mark's response was just what she'd expected. "Hey, that sounds like a great idea! Let’s all do it."
The men began daring each other to go skinny-dipping. It was almost dark, but thanks to the firelight, she was soon viewing four bare, male backsides, three pale and one dark, racing for the lake.
Although left alone on the shore, she wasn't ignored. After hitting the water, the men began calling for her to join them. "I don't think so," she answered. "That's just what I need, a reputation for going skinny-dipping with four guys."
Amy knew saying no was the only logical decision. For one thing, going in would mess up her hair big time. But they'd all be going back to college soon. This might be her last chance to do something to get Mark's mind off Bebe and onto her.
From out on the lake, teasing chants of, "Amy's a chicken, Amy's a chicken," accompanied by imitations of chicken squawks interrupted her thoughts.
The men couldn't see the determined look on her face as she got to her feet. "Okay, you creeps. I'm coming in."
#
Mark stood waist deep in the cool water, watching as Amy began to unbutton her shirt. "Y’all turn around until I get in the water."
It was an unnecessary gesture towards modesty. With clouds hiding the moon, there was little light. That, plus the campfire burning behind her, meant the only thing visible was her silhouette.
The request was answered by a derisive chorus of boo's, whistles, and cries of, "Take it off. Take it off." Walt's voice cut through the din. "Come on, Sis. Don't start playing shy on us just because you're the scrawniest person here."
"Walt Marshall, you'll pay for that," yelled Amy as she tossed her shirt to the ground and began struggling with her jeans. In Mark's opinion, that silhouette in the firelight looked anything but scrawny. Still, count on Walt to come up with the perfect line to get Amy moving.
Once she joined them, there was a lot of horseplay, even a short-lived football game featuring an old sneaker Willie had found on the shore, but very little swimming. It was during a lull in the action, that Amy suggested Mark "toss" her. It was an acrobatic stunt that would involve him heaving her straight up out of the water. If done right, she'd have time to arch forward and re-enter in a controlled dive. They'd done this many times in the past, but never in the dark-much less while skinny-dipping.
"Are you sure?" Mark was both surprised and a little dubious.
"Of course, I'm sure. Come on. It'll be fun."
When everyone else began urging them to give it a try, he agreed. "All right. But you guys aren't fooling me. All y'all want is to get my head under water."
He took Amy's hand and helped her into position standing in front of him, facing away. The dark lake water was lapping at her pale, bare shoulders. When he asked, "You ready?" she nodded.
Placing his hands on her waist, Mark exhaled to offset his body's natural buoyancy and then began pushing his way down toward a squatting position at her feet. To reach that goal, he had to use her body to help propel and guide his descent. As his hands slid down her sides and his body brushed against her skin, Mark found himself struggling to ignore the feel of that warm, silky, and very naked flesh.
Once in position he tapped on her feet, the signal for her to rise up on tiptoe so he could cup a heel in each hand. When everything was in place, he shifted forward slightly and she leaned back against his shoulder, letting him know she was ready.
That's when Mark lost his struggle. The touch of her legs along his chest, the smooth contour of her thighs resting lightly against his shoulder, the sensation of her hip nestled against the side of his face, it was more than he could ignore. There was an excited churning in his stomach and a dizzy confusion inside his skull. His mind wouldn't work. His body couldn't move.
Amy twitched her legs as a reminder she was ready, but he couldn't respond. It took oxygen deprivation to break the spell. Almost out of air, he began propelling her upward. But the long pause had gotten them out of synch. A knee buckled, a hand, or was it a foot, slipped and while only halfway out of the water, Amy began falling awkwardly back into the lake.
Once the choking and gasping ended, neither of them got any sympathy from the onlookers. "That has to be the most pathetic excuse for a toss I've ever seen," said Willie, his voice thick with feigned disgust.
"Yep, that was pretty sad, you two," agreed Bob.
"You two nothing, it was all his fault," insisted Amy, pointing at Mark. "He even looks guilty."
It'd become so dark she was the only one close enough to make out his expression. But Amy was wrong; the look on Mark's face had nothing to do with guilt. Its source was a storm of other emotions so strong and unsettling he could barely breath. Finally he managed to croak, "I'm innocent. And I must have swallowed at least half the lake."
Amy drifted closer and put a hand on his shoulder. "You poor thing," she said, giving him a wink that belied her teasing tone. "Do you need help, maybe some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? I think Bob got a merit badge in first aide? Would you like for him come help?"
"Nothing personal," said Bob, "but if I've got to give him mouth-to-mouth, I say let nature take it's course."
This strong show of compassion continued until Walt broke in, "I can't stand it. I promised myself I wouldn't do this, but seeing what a shambles you and Mark made of things, I'm wondering if you want to try that overhand toss we did once?"
The overhand was tougher to pull off because the thrower had to squat with his hands shoulder high like a weight lifter about to lift a barbell over his head. This made it harder for the person being tossed to keep their balance. But since the thrower could extend their arms straight up during the toss, if everything worked just right, the results could be a high and spectacular ascent.
Everyone but Mark agreed he was unfit for duty. After a feeble protest, he moved out of the way so Willie and Bob could get into position on either side of Amy.
The clouds that had promised but once again not delivered any rain were breaking up and the lake was suddenly bathed in bright moonlight. This made it easy for Mark to watch as, after a good deal of talk and shuffling about, Walt disappeared beneath the surface. A moment later, Amy went soaring into the warm, night sky.
It was a high, absolutely perfect toss. Willie, Bob, and Walt were covered with spray which partially blocked their view. Mark was the only one who saw all of Amy's moonlight flight, and he was transfixed.
Whenever he remembered the event, it was always in slow motion. The sight of her wet, nude, nymph-like body soaring gracefully above the lake was beautiful, and erotic, and devastating. The emotions still battering him instantly coalesced into a total and all-consuming love.
He’d been fighting that feeling since they kissed last spring. Thanks to Bebe, he thought he might be winning. Now he knew better. But guys like him didn’t stand a chance with a girl like Amy. Making a move on her would just cost him his best friend.
Mesmerized, he watched Amy’s graceful, moonlit form arch slowly and then begin heading back toward the lake. As she sliced through the dark surface, Mark knew he was in trouble. After finally making love with Bebe, the girl he always wanted, he'd fallen in love with Amy, the girl who'd always been his friend; the woman he could never have.
Labels: falling in love, romance, skinny-dipping, southern fiction
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
ANGIE'S WATERFALL WOES - short story
A Corbett National Park Waterfall If you considered, Outdoor Angie: a cautionary tale, to be a piece of poorly written prose exhibiting, at best, questionable taste, odds are you're really going to hate its sequel, this week's contribution to the decline of English letters, Angie's Waterfall Woes.
note: The two main characters in this tale are college students who go around thinking about, preparing for, participating in, and recovering from a certain earthy activity--in this case conducted in the great outdoors. However, the goal is to be funny, not erotic. Honest.
Bayou Bill
Angie’s Waterfall Woes
by Bill Fullerton
As a firm adherent of the, “If it feels good, do it,” school of social behavior, Angie Eveready was not given to long bouts of contemplation. But in the wake of her somewhat-less-than-successful attempt to fulfill her fantasy of making love in the great outdoors, she felt the current situation required a good, old-fashioned think.
The perfect place for such deep introspection was stretched out on a massage table while a sweet chiropractor named Dr. Ari A. Fresca did all sorts of delicious things to her bare back, and shoulders, and thighs, and bottom.
Her first taste of sylvan sex, a romp in the woods with Ernie, had been a total blast—at first. But it ended in failure when his dog, Buford the Beagle, nosed into the act, so to speak, in a very up-close and personal way.
That unsatisfactory experience had lead to second thoughts about her fantasy, not to mention insect bites, a crick in her neck, muscle strains in her back, scratches, a minor concussion, and a spring cold.
That’s when Ralph showed up. Like most members of the small student body at Wodehouse College, he was a friend of a friend. They met at an Earth Day planning session.
Ralph was a sharp dresser and fast talker. Many otherwise charitable observers considered him a low-life, slime-ball. Others insisted he was more like a case of persistent jock itch. But he had these soft, puppy-like eyes that, for no discernable reason, gave certain females the mistaken impression they could safely confide in him.
It wasn’t long before Angie joined that number, confessing her love of the wilderness and her long-held fantasy of communing with nature by making love in the great out-of-doors. After her third post-planning session beer at Ralph’s apartment, she even admitted to her recent failure in this regard. She then granted Ralph a sample of what would be in-store should she ever achieve the long-sought natural nirvana.
All this fired Ralph with an even greater zeal to help Angie fulfill her fantasy. The term “even greater” is appropriate, for when it came to face and figure, mother nature had been very kind to Angie. She possessed the type of body the late Aldous Huxley would no doubt have described as, “pneumatic.” While her long legs, shapely bottom and generous bosom diverted the attention of most men, those who managed to lift their gaze could behold an exquisite, Madonna-like face that featured dark-brown eyes, full lips, and a smile that was both beatific and seductive.
It was an accepted truth around campus that whatever Ralph might lack in looks, smarts, and class, he more than made up for with a line of solid-gold BS. Using this skill, he convinced Angie her problem with outdoor sex wasn’t the fantasy or setting, but her male partner. She needed a guy who wouldn’t bring a dog along, someone who had access to a mountain cabin near a waterfall, and who knew everything anyone needed to know about the wilderness. In other words, she needed a fellow nature-lover like Ralph.
By Ralph’s somewhat loose standards, he wasn’t lying, not really. While he wouldn’t know a raccoon from a rhino, he did know enough not to bring along a dog. He also thought that, with a little luck, he might be able to wangle a remote cabin he spent a miserable night in many years ago. To consider his claim that he knew everything anyone needed to know about the wilderness as valid, however, one would need to accept his contention that all any sane person needed to know about the wilderness was to stay the hell out of the place.
Though Angie was just a freshman, she possessed a remarkably inclusive attitude towards men. Still, a guy with a face eerily similar to that of a ferret, an ill proportioned body built by years of easy living, and the personality of a two-faced rat, would seem an unlikely candidate for her favors. But those soft eyes and the promise of a mountain cabin near a waterfall proved too much to resist. She agreed.
The cabin in question was the seldom used property of a friend of the second wife of one of Ralph’s cousins. Angie was told it belonged to his uncle. The location played a large role in its limited use. Reaching it required an extended hike up, and up, and up a long, narrow, overgrown trail. Even well-conditioned day-trippers found the feat a challenge. For those who were out-of-shape, and toting a backpack loaded with enough supplies for a weekend, it was an experience that could crush both body and soul.
Being a gentleman, and a man whose idea of exercise was popping the top on another beer, Ralph let Angie lead the way. This gesture accomplished two things. It kept her from seeing him sweating and straining while giving him a highly motivating, low-angle view of her ample bottom in motion. This inspirational view managed to keep him climbing that long, long trail even as he felt a growing kinship with those who endured the Bataan Death March.
No doubt spurred on by the vision undulating before him, Ralph managed to reach the cabin without collapsing or throwing up. While Angie admired the tall hardwood trees surrounding the cabin, Ralph tried to unlatch the door. This proved a time consuming process. Due to a combination of lust and exhaustion, his fingers refused to stop shaking.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least by savvy outdoor-types, that unoccupied, rustic cabins acquire a memorable, earthy aroma. This is most evident when first entering the structure. Consider for a moment the stale, dusty smell of Grandma’s attic. To that add mold, mildew, animal droppings and a funky essence similar to that of athletic socks left all summer in a poorly ventilated gym locker, and you begin to get the idea.
It was Ralph’s plan to get Angie inside, spread out the sleeping bags, and begin the first of what he hoped would be many boisterous bounces in the cabin. The strong, heady scent that wafted out of the cabin door, along with the sound of that waterfall, cancelled his plan.
When he tried to get her inside, she gave him a big kiss, giggled and slipped away. Her idea was to leave the door open so the cabin could air out while they went to find the waterfall. This didn’t seem like a very good idea to Ralph who was both horny and still exhausted from the climb.
Those who have read the account of Angie’s earlier adventure may recall her amazing ability to coax men into doing virtually anything she wants. On this arboreal occasion, the quick removal of her t-shirt did the trick.
In justice to Ralph, it must be reported that few men, living or dead, could resist the sight of her bountiful bosom. Angie’s breasts were large and shapely with the springy tautness of youth. To the slack-jawed Ralph, their large, erect nipples seemed to be pointing right at him. When Angie turned and headed for the falls, he followed like some dumb ox after a carrot dangled just inches from his reach.
The waterfall in question proved so impressive, it managed to get Ralph’s mind off Angie’s breasts for a good ten seconds. To him, the place looked like a jungle scene from some Tarzan movie. A thin stream of water seemed to appear by magic high in the forest before plunging down an almost vertical cliff face into a rocky, tree-lined pool.
The sight of Angie sitting on a rock and taking off her hiking boots diverted Ralph’s attention and raised, among other things, his hopes. To his disappointment, she didn’t remove her shorts. Instead, she moved to the edge of the pool, found another rock to sit on, and began splashing her feet in the water.
This was better than nothing, he decided, and joined her. The water was colder than the proverbial well-digger’s derriere in the Dakotas, but it felt good on his hot, sweaty feet. Something told him not to rush Angie, that his time would come, soon. In a rare display of patience, he put an arm around her shoulders and they just sat, savoring the spectacle.
But they were young and healthy. Ralph was also very horny. As for Angie, little was ever required to stir her primal instincts. Now she was falling under the romantic spell of the waterfall. So when Ralph took one of her breasts in his free hand and nuzzled her neck, she responded in a most positive manner.
Passion is one thing, however, practicality another. In this case, their passion to copulate ran into the reality that there was no way they could do so on that rock.
Ralph’s very practical suggestion—that they return to the cabin—met with adamant resistance from Angie. She didn’t agree to hike all the way up here and spend the weekend with a lesser life form like Ralph just to get it on in some dirty, stuffy cabin when they could be making love beside such a beautiful wonder of nature.
This attitude initiated a search, best described as frantic, by the hyper-horny Ralph. While Angie sat on her rock, contemplating the waterfall, he moved furiously around the edge of the pond, looking for a flat surface. Tucked away near the spot where the pool ended and the stream recommenced its downhill journey, he found that for which he sought.
It was a secluded nook, just up from a little strip of sand. Having once scored on the beach, he was glad there was a fern-like ground covering to keep the sand and dirt off them. Not that he really cared. That would be Angie’s problem. But he wanted to keep her happy, horny, and humping. With a yelp of triumph, he rushed back around the pool to claim his prize.
Angie thought the spot was great. She turned and gave the beaming Ralph a big kiss while pulling off his shirt. It fell to the ground and she rubbed her breasts against his pale chest, letting her hard nipples slip through the sparse chest hairs. With a cry of outdoor joy, she hugged him close and let him start working on her shorts while she gazed over his shoulder at the waterfall.
They were still in the midst of this embrace when the wind shifted. It had been coming up the mountain. The most significant effect being to blow the mist and spray away from anyone who happened to be at the base of the waterfall. Now it was blowing down the mountain. As a result, tiny droplets of ice-cold mountain stream water were being directed their way.
Both lovers noticed the chilling effect of the wind change at the same time. Their reactions, however, differed. Ralph was all for returning to the snug dry, cabin. Angie, whose outdoor fantasies included making love in the rain, decided spray from the nearby waterfall was a more than acceptable alternative, and insisted they stay.
In his excited condition, it took very little coaxing on her part before Ralph agreed. However, he urged her to go ahead and crawl into their hide-away. At the entrance, she paused. Recalling past disasters, she asked if he’d checked it out and was sure it was safe.
Ralph, who had barely glanced inside, said he checked every inch and for her not to worry. Reassured, Angie crawled in, rolled over on her back, snuggled in among the soft green ivy, spread her legs, and then lifted her arms toward Ralph in a totally unnecessary gesture of welcome.
Not unlike a drowning man lunging for a life vest, Ralph leapt into the breach. After one or two near misses, he scored a direct hit and sank into the snug warmth of Angie’s exceptional body.
If Ralph’s body and equipment were less impressive than those she’d recently experienced, Angie didn’t mind. With the exception of a few men she’d known, okay, make that one man, Ernie, it was her experience that all tomcats were gray in the dark, so to speak. And what Ralph might lack in size and technique, he almost made for with enthusiasm.
Their passionate proceeding had barely begun when she felt something small and sharp poking into her bottom. Assuming it was a stick, she continued her erotic endeavors.
Soon she felt something else, a bit more like a pinch, near the first one. She was closing in on what promised to be a really nice climax, and didn’t want to stop. So each time she lifted her hips off the ground, she gave them an extra wiggle, hoping to land on a spot free of whatever it was. This action drove Ralph to even greater heights of verbal prowess, but the stinging only got worse.
Among her many talents, Angie knew how to multi-task. Even as the passionate coupling between she and Ralph became more intense, she slipped a hand beneath her bottom and tried to smooth away whatever was bothering her. When something sharp and painful stuck her hand, she jerked it away. While still hunching and moaning, she moved the hand near her face for a close look.
Small objects were crawling on the back of her hand. They were, to be more precise, red ants. One of them picked that moment to try a sample of her flesh. Considering that this ant's comrades were simultaneously attacking both her heinie and her hand, Angie’s next action was, in hindsight, both natural and reasonable.
It would be hard to imagine any two people being closer at that moment than were Angie and Ralph. Despite this physical proximity, however, a vast communication gap existed between the young lovers. Ralph misinterpreted Angie’s shouts and screams, not to mention her vigorous gyrations, as manifestations of a passion that was about to explode. Having read several sex manuals and how-to articles, he knew real men always left their women satisfied. This led to a re-doubling of his efforts. Besides, he was on the verge of re-enacting the epic eruption at Mount Vesuvius.
At this point in the proceedings, Angie got the distinct sensation the ants had begun a rather thorough exploration of their new environment. As part of this journey of discovery, they were approaching the same inner recesses of her anatomy Buford the Beagle had also sought to investigate.
This revelation proved very motivational. With a scream of “Get off me, you jerk!” Angie instituted a particularly powerful heave with her hips while pushing against her lover's flat chest. It was thus that she managed to dislodge the confused and preoccupied Ralph. His unsettled mental condition can be ascribed, in large part, to finding himself in the early stages of what had suddenly become a mid-air emission.
It is a little known law of nature that those lying buck-naked in small, dim, secluded woodland nooks find it very difficult to remove ants which are busy inflicting a series of burning bites and simultaneously doing their best to enter certain private passages and recesses of said person’s anatomy. To Angie’s credit, she quickly grasped this concept.
Shoving the bewildered and still spurting Ralph aside, she jumped up and raced toward the pool. Though it ran counter to her long and loudly espoused love of nature and reverence for life and animal rights, she fully intended to drown every one of what, in her agitated state of mind, she now labeled as, those damn little piss-ants.
Do you remember that wind shift mentioned earlier? In case that item slipped your mind in all the excitement, it began while Angie and Ralph were playing tongue hockey and ripping off what little clothes they still had on. The shift propelled the waterfall’s spray and mist in their direction and quickly covered their bare skin with a thin film of cold water. Then Ralph said lets go do it in the cabin and Angie said no, let’s make love in that spot you found.
You remember now?
Well, that wind had continued blowing in the same direction. As a result, the once dry rocks which provided such sure footing when Angie and Ralph first arrived, were now coated with water and become VERY slippery. It’s a testament to either Angie’s youthful agility or her good luck that she almost made it to the pool before a foot slipped, then an ankle twisted and she entered the ice-cold water in a manner somewhat resembling the cannonball dive so favored my drunken men with large bellies.
To use the negative form of an expression made famous by former U.S. Vice President Dan Quayle, Angie was not a happy camper. By the time she managed to get her boots back on, a process delayed by her throwing one of them at Ralph, and limped to the cabin, her back was beginning to itch. A quick check of her official, Guide to Plants and Bugs and Other Disgusting Outdoor Stuff, revealed the hard truth that the soft ground cover she had recently reclined upon was, poison ivy.
After-action damage assessment:
Angie:
1. Various bruises and abrasions
2. One sprained ankle
3. A severe case of poison ivy
4. Blisters on both feet
5. Numerous ant bites, some in very personal spots
Ralph:
1. Blisters on both feet
2. Dehydration, from carrying both packs back to the car
3. A strained back, ditto
4. One black eye, from Angie’s well-thrown boot
5. No more Angie, not in her lifetime
Now Angie was back in civilization and Dr. Fresca’s fabulous fingers were making it all better. Her bare bottom wiggled with contentment under the kindly doctor’s skillful touch as she considered his suggestion.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need to try experiencing nature in a more refined setting; like amid all the flowers and natural beauty he keeps talking about in his backyard. And with it being surrounded by a tall privacy fence, I could lay out beside the heated pool in my bikini, or less. After all, he says sunshine will help clear up the last of that damn poison ivy. And he’s the doctor, and kind of cute for an older guy. So he should know, shouldn’t he?
Oh, will Angie ever learn?
Labels: bug bites, coitus interruptus, hiking, humor, outdoors, waterfall
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
WE DANCED TO RAY CHARLES: synopsis & prologue
Due to uncertainity over what constitutes "published" in this age of the internet, only the synopsis, prologue, and first two chapters of this novel can be posted on an "open" blog.
Anyone interested in reading more after plowing through this should e-mail me at bemildered@yahoo.com for the link, username, and password to the "protected" blog.
Bayou Bill
==
Moral choices are seldom as simple as the one faced by MARK CAHILL in the summer of 1968, but it was the dangerous simplicity of a razor’s edge. On one side were an exotic beauty, the chance for political office, and the approval of most people in his small southern hometown.
On the other side were his beliefs, self-respect, and life-long friends, one of whom he now loved but knew he could never have. Set against the backdrop of racial tension and social change, We Danced to Ray Charles is a story of love, hate, temptation and loss.
Mark’s problems begin at a spring keg party on the levee of the Mississippi River. That night he and AMY MARSHALL, his oldest friend, kiss. Mark falls in love, but is convinced Any didn’t since, “guys like me don’t stand a chance with girl’s like her.”
Then the petite, exotic, BEBE BOUDREAUX, makes a very pragmatic decision to move in on Mark. She’s rejected him for years because, “he’s just too damn nice,” but arranges to accidentally bump into him at a dance in Pinefield. By the time they leave, she’s agreed to what becomes the first in a series of ever more intimate dates.
While Mark is delighted and surprised by this turn of events, there’s more to his wanting her than just hormones. He’s always felt like a perennial runner-up. As he explains to a friend, dating Bebe is like winning a blue ribbon; it says he’s a winner. And he hopes being with Bebe will help him forget how he feels about the unattainable Amy.
What Mark won't admit to anyone is how dating Bebe also helps him deal with a long-standing self-loathing over his fear of DARRELL RAY SIMS, Bebe’s long time, back-street lover. While in junior high, Sims humiliated him during a football game. Since then, Mark has been afraid of Sims and ashamed of his fear. That Bebe would go out with Sims and a lot of other guys while rejecting him just re-enforced this feeling.
However, Bebe’s unexpected change of attitude forces Mark to face some serious complications. For one thing, she’s a racist. So are a lot of other people he knows. But he and his friends are not, and it’s getting harder for him to overlook her type of blatant racism. It’s even tougher to ignore her father, who has taken over the local Klan.
That’s a particularly awkward situation since one of Mark’s other close friends is WILLIE CARTER. His father is Pinefield’s leading black minister and head of the area’s civil rights movement.
Mark, Amy, and Willie were born a few weeks apart and grew up together. Along with laconic latecomer BOB HEMPHILL, who Bebe once publicly insulted, they are a close-knit group. Even for Mark, who can rationalize almost anything, balancing his values and old friendships with dating Bebe is a tricky act.
There are other complications. When Bebe begins dating Mark, Darrell Ray Sims, who has always felt a class-based contempt for the “candy-assed, city kid,” turns to Klan activities in an effort to impress her. Many of these acts relate to a “Peeping Tom” trial the Klan supported sheriff hopes will insure his re-election by embarrassing Willie’s family and impeding the voter’s registration drive.
But for Mark, the worst complication is the physical attraction he continues to feel for Amy, the homecoming queen and campus beauty who he’s sure can never be more than his friend. When he sees and feels her tall, slim, nude body the moonlit night they go skinny-dipping, it leaves him numb, speechless, and feeling hopeless.
Amy is facing her own complication. While unsure how she feels about her life-long best friend, she’s positive Bebe is evil and would be terrible for Mark. Amy wonders if she’s trying to break them up because she cares for Mark, hates Bebe, or is there more to her motives? But as she confides to her sister and cousin, it doesn’t matter how she feels about Mark. He’s so nuts about Bebe he didn’t even react to her body brushing against his the night they went skinny-dipping.
For Bebe, it’s a much less complicated situation. A Cajun, she’s a relative newcomer to the clannish town and wants Mark for financial security and social respectability. If hooking him antagonizes Amy, the long-time rival she despises, so much the better.
Another friend summed up the situation this way for Mark:
After knowing Amy all your life, you go and fall for her just when Bebe drops in on the act. You didn’t ask for advice, but in my opinion you should tell Bebe to hit the road and then take your best shot with Amy. But you won’t do that. You’re too hung up on Bebe and too afraid of losing Amy. Besides, we both know you’re a nice guy who was born to compromise.
The problem is you could end up losing ‘em both, plus a bunch of friends and, what the hell, toss in your self-respect just for good measure. So I feel sorry for you. No shit, I do. ‘Cause unless you change your ways, something tells me you’re in for a very interesting summer.
PROLOGUE
From the dark cab of his pick-up truck, Jack Boudreaux and his second-in-command, Delmar Bullock, watch with approval as the cars turn right onto a dead-end road with no lights and no name in a nowhere place called Sandtown.
On one side of the street, abandoned cars, a basketball goal with no net, and a weed-choked baseball field occupy an otherwise vacant lot.
A row of small frame houses, perched as if ready to flee at the slightest noise, face the lot. All are tidy but patched and weatherworn. Short fences outline bare-dirt front yards.
The quiet procession halts in front of the last house. No dogs bark as uniformed white men get out. One circles behind the dark house. The others set up around the front and sides.
A tall, nervous man wearing western boots and a cowboy hat steps up on the porch. After a last glance around, he hitches up his pants and pulls a pearl-handled, .44-caliber revolver from its hand-tooled holster. He yanks the screen door open and begins banging on the wooden, hollow-core front door. With his first blow, red lights start flashing on top of the cars.
“Open up! This is the Sheriff. Come on out, Amos. We know you’re in there.”
From inside comes the sound of frightened whispers and scurrying feet. The tall man hits the door even harder. The sound echoes in the damp night air. “This is Sheriff Tobias. Get on out here. We gotta talk.”
“I’m comin’. Jes let me get my pants on.” There are more loud whispers. Someone peers out from behind the curtains of a front window. Then the door opens a few inches and a middle-aged, black face with old, wary eyes looks out.
“What ya wanna talk about, Sheriff? I ain’t done nothin’.”
“Don’t give me that shit, boy. Get out here or I’m gonna bust in and drag you out.”
“You don’t hafta do that. My Momma’s in here. You already done scared her ‘bout half to death.” The door swings inward and a short, wiry man wearing khaki work pants and a white t-shirt steps out. ”What y’all doing here dis time of night, Sheriff?”
“Shut up, nigger!” The white man holsters his pistol, then reaches behind his lanky frame and produces a set of handcuffs. “You’re coming with me.”
The black man steps back. His face shows surprise and fear. “How come? I told you I ain’t done nothin’.”
“And I told you to shut up. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back. I’m taking you to Pinefield, to jail.”
After a momentary hesitation, the voice of white authority overwhelms any outrage or bewilderment. The man named Amos does as ordered and the cuffs snap into place.
The Sheriff spins him back around, steps away, pulls out his revolver and uses it to motion for another white man to join them. Then he glares at his prisoner. “You’re a goddamn pervert. You know that, boy? We got an eyewitness who saw you looking into the bathroom window of a white, widow-lady named Myrtis Oglesby. Amos Little, you’re under arrest as a Peeping Tom.”
“A what? Sheriff, I ain’t been looking into no white woman’s window.” The prisoner turns from the Sheriff to the deputy, as if searching for support. “Least of all no dried-up, crazy old white woman like Mrs. Myrtis.”
Bathed in the rhythmic, flashing glare of red lights, the sweeping motion of the Sheriff’s right hand resembles something from a flickering silent movie as his fist, and the revolver it holds, smash into the side of the prisoner’s head. A scream comes from inside the house. He staggers in a macabre, jake-leg dance of insensibility, then drops to his knees.
Sheriff Odell Tobias leans close and hisses. “Nigger, you’re talking about my wife’s aunt. Now it looks like we’re gonna have to add a charge of resisting arrest.”
Another deputy joins the first. They pull the prisoner to his feet, drag him off the porch, and shove him into the back of the lead car. There’s a ragged volley of closing doors.
With sirens on and lights still flashing, the three large cars with the words Kisatche Parish Sheriff’s Department and an angry, ornate star on each front door swing around and leave. As they drive past the pick-up truck, everyone but the prisoner waves at the two men sitting inside.
Thin red streaks emerge from the dark cab, arc through the still night and land with small bursts of glowing embers. Headlights come on and the truck moves down the now deserted street. It stops across from the last house, the one with the front door still open. Inside, a black widow-lady named Bernice Little is alone and crying for her son.
The men get out, lift an X-shaped object from the bed of the truck, and carry it into the vacant lot. A small flame soon spreads up from the base of a wooden cross. They wait to make sure the cross is burning properly. Once assured it’s another Klan job well done, they head back towards Pinefield, and home.
Labels: arrest, cross burning, KKK, Klan, small town, southern fiction
Monday, March 24, 2008
THE DANCERS - chap one
This is the opening chapter of my second novel, We Danced To Ray Charles. In it the novel's bad girl begins to weave her seductive web around our poor hero. This version reflects changes suggested by Robert Flynn. As always, any input would be greatly appreciated.
Bayou Bill
==
THE DANCERS
by Bill Fullerton
It was another turbulent evening in the spring of ’68. Student protests raged from the Sorbonne to Berkeley. Civil rights demonstrations and anti-war rallies were turning violent. Martin Luther King was dead; Bobby Kennedy would be soon. Hundreds of other Americans were dying each week in South Vietnam. Soldiers patrolled the streets of Saigon, Paris, and Washington. Soviet troops prepared to invade Prague. And in a nowhere place in Louisiana called Sandtown, an innocent black man was beaten and arrested.
But in nearby Pinefield, everything was perfect. At least, that’s what Mark Cahill kept telling himself. Bebe Boudreaux’s head rested on his chest as they moved in languid harmony to sound of Ray Charles singing, “You Don’t Know Me.” The petite, perfect form he'd always wanted was in his arms, molded against his body. It made for a perfect moment, in a perfect place, in a perfect world—at least it should have been perfect.
He almost hadn’t come. After three years in college, a Junior League, End-of-School, dance held little appeal. Still, he needed to keep connected with his hometown friends and remind them he still existed. That might be very important in a few years. So when his mother, a Junior League member, strongly suggested he stop by and check on things, he agreed.
Arriving late, he paused just inside the front door to shake hands and mingle. Thick cigarette smoke couldn’t mask the musty smell of the old American Legion hall. The Junior League had done its best to spruce up the place. Balloons, banners, and other decorations were everywhere but couldn’t hide all the World War II era posters and dated fixtures.
Black-and-white photographs of serious looking men in funny looking hats like those soda jerks wore filled the far wall. All were former post commanders. Among them were his father and grandfather. Fading pictures of American Legion and Women's Auxiliary activities completed the décor.
Aretha Franklin’s demand for “Respect” segued into the Rolling Stones frustrated search for "Satisfaction.” The sea of sweaty dancers paused, then broke into another spasm of jerking legs, flailing arms, and twisting bodies.
As Mark watched from the sidelines, congratulating himself on not being out among them, someone tapped his shoulder. He turned and saw Bebe Boudreaux smiling up at him. He'd last seen her during Christmas break. As usual, she looked great. Now, as he gazed down at that delicate face with the big, liquid-brown eyes that commanded your attention, he felt sure she never looked better.
As they spoke, Ray Charles began singing “I Can’t Stop Loving You.” Mark hesitated, then asked her to dance. To his surprise, she agreed. The next song was, “Crying Time” another slow Ray Charles country ballad. Bebe made no effort to extract herself from his arms, and they kept dancing. Without leaning away, she gazed up at him through long, thick lashes. "Ah didn't remember you being such a good dancer.”
Mark wondered when Bebe’s new “Gone With the Wind” drawl had replaced her soft Cajun lilt. Her unexpected compliment pleased him, though he couldn’t recall the last time last they danced. “Ray Charles always inspires me. Besides, you’re just saying that because I haven’t stomped on your toes, yet."
"No, really, it's true." Her familiar, sexy, little grin broadened into an all-encompassing smile. "You must have been practicing a lot down at LSU."
He felt his face flush and hoped she hadn’t noticed. "Only the juke-joint shuffle and the Cajun two-step.”
"Really? The Cajun two-step? Now you're talking about my people, cher.” She cocked her head and stared into his eyes. “You'll have to show me your technique sometime."
"If you've got the nerve, I've got the time.” What looked like a pleased expression crossed Bebe’s face before she laid her head back on his chest.
Mark forced himself to breathe. It wasn’t easy. Everything about Bebe, even her new accent and perfume, turned him on. He couldn’t figure the reason for her being so nice, but he liked it, a lot, and wondered where it might lead.
The song ended and they sat at a rickety folding table with some friends from high school, flirting, telling jokes, and catching up on gossip. Later, when everyone else got up for a fast song, Mark made no move to follow.
"I don't know about you, but I'm grateful we're sitting here and not working ourselves to death out there." Bebe stopped nodding to the beat long enough to give him a slow wink and say she agreed. To Mark, it seemed sexy beyond belief and convinced him to test the limits of her new and improved attitude.
He cleared his throat, then spoke in a voice he hoped sounded calm and casual. "Of course, the Cajun two-step and juke-joint shuffle don't take as much energy. Are you, uh, still interested in us looking into that situation?"
After a thoughtful sip of Tab, she tilted her head and gazed into his eyes. "What did you have in mind, Mark?"
For just a moment, he hesitated. "Well, I was thinking we might go down to Shep's in Mansura. It's a pretty long drive and I've never seen any real two-stepping going on there. Still, it's a first-class Cajun honky-tonk."
"That might be fun,” she said. “Shep's is one of my favorite places. When did you want to go?"
"Oh, I don’t know," he said, trying to act calm. “If tomorrow night’s too soon, what about next weekend? John Fred and The Playboy Band are supposed to be there both Friday and Saturday."
"Well, I’ve got to admit I'm getting a little tired of hearing, ‘Judy In Disguise.’ Ah mean it's been on every radio station around here just about forever.” She exaggerated the word, “forever,” and gave her head an amused shake which sent her long, dark hair into motion. “But other than that, the band's great and John Fred's really cute."
Not having an opinion on the cuteness of the state's current leading rock star, Mark just nodded. She seemed to be considering the alternatives. "Why don't we go next Saturday?”
The tension in his body began to ease. The age of miracles hadn’t passed. After all these years, he and Bebe were going on a date. While he tried to process this development, Bebe continued, "Ah really like Shep's better on Friday nights. To me, it's less crowded and friendlier. The problem is, Saturday mornings at the store can get really busy. Ah'd hate to try and handle a big rush after being down there Friday night."
Someone bucking for sainthood played a slow Ray Charles song "You Don’t Know Me” and they got up to dance. “Born To Lose” came next and they continued to move. Mark decided another Ray Charles fan must be running the stereo and silently blessed him.
As the song’s last melancholy notes faded away, Bebe said she had to go. "Ah really am sorry. But like Ah said, things can get really crazy at work on Saturday mornings, and according to that calendar over on the wall, tomorrow is Saturday."
Mark’s initial disappointment vanished in a flash of inspiration. “I should be calling it a night myself. Why don't I walk you to your car?"
"Ah'd like that. Just let me get my purse."
He watched as Bebe made her way toward the cloakroom. The sight of that celebrated Cajun derriere swaying in a seductive rhythm was always arousing. Over the last eight years, he'd witnessed that wonder of nature many times. Far too often after another rejection. This time he felt no mixed emotions. Tonight, she would be walking back to him.
Out on the floor, Penny Harrison and Ralph Lawson gyrated past him. Penny, a slender, pretty brunette, smiled and waved. Mark liked her, always had, and wondered if she and Amy were still fussing. Ralph, Penny’s long-time steady, pretended to be looking the other way. While Mark and Ralph were almost always civil to one another, their relations were, at best, tense. They’d almost gotten into it tonight. Ralph had made a crack about “niggers” and Mark responded with a joke at Ralph’s expense.
Little “Skeeter” Cummings, flashing her new engagement ring, danced by with Mark’s old football teammate, the aptly named, “Hoss” Driscoll. Back at the table, her question about Amy had caught him off-guard. But she didn’t seem to notice his reaction. Probably too excited about getting engaged to pay him much attention.
At the sight of Bebe coming back, all other thoughts vanished. Outside, they hurried past the swarms of June bugs circling the yellow porch lights, and stepped into the warm, muggy night. With the moon hidden by low clouds, the gloom in the gravel parking lot was almost tangible. The sounds of crickets and frogs had replaced the thump of rock music by the time they reached the 1966 Chevelle Super Sport Bebe’s father, Jack Boudreaux, had given her as a graduation present.
"Thanks for coming with me. Dark parking lots give me the creeps. Ah'm always afraid some crazy nig--, uh, nut might be waiting to, well, you know."
“No problem,” said Mark. He had noticed her double-clutching to keep from saying, “nigger,” but said nothing. Everyone knew he was “soft” on the race issue and that he and Amy were both life-long friends of Willie Carter, son of the town’s leading black preacher and civil rights leader. But he could recall Bebe, who had always been openly racist, ever trying to watch her language. Could she be getting better? God knows she couldn’t have gotten much worse.
She unlocked the door and then turned to face him. "By the way, what time did you want to pick me up?"
"Well, uh, what about six? If that's no good, name your poison."
"Six sounds great.” She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Ah’m glad you were here tonight. You made it a lot more fun. And you saved me from dancing with Hoss and Ralph or, even worse, high school guys."
Before Mark could recover from the unexpected kiss, she slipped into her seat and closed the door. The big engine sprang into life with a deep, almost sensual, growl. She rolled down her window and gave him another smile. "Ah'm really looking forward to next Saturday."
Bebe fluttered her fingers in a goodbye gesture as she pulled away. The tires made a brief squeal as they hit the asphalt road. Mark watched the taillights vanish into the sultry night while touching the spot she’d kissed.
A warm breeze drifted past. With it came a faint scent of spring flowers and the succulent eroticism of approaching rain. It reminded him of another night and another girl. His hand dropped, his smile faded, and he whispered, “Ain’t life a bitch?”
It all seemed like a bad joke. The once unobtainable Bebe Boudreaux, the girl he had always wanted, now seemed interested in him. That would be great, except he’d just fallen in love with Amy, someone he could never have, someone he loved so much it hurt to even think her name.
Even the possibility of a well-financed run for state representative in the next elections couldn’t get Amy off his mind. Once, they both loved politics. He still did, and had always wanted to run for office. But after today’s meeting with local big shots, all he could think about was how, after what Vietnam did to her brother, she no longer cared.
Thank God he bumped into Bebe. What politics couldn’t do, she could, almost. With Bebe around, it’d been hard for thoughts of anyone else to slip in, but not impossible. And the moment she drove away, memories of that night with Amy had come flooding back along with a familiar, sick, hopeless, soul-shriveling sensation.
A swarm of hungry mosquitoes intruded on his thoughts. An absentminded attempt to wave them away failed and he headed for his car. He wanted to be alone, try to figure things out, not feed mosquitoes.
#
The tree-lined streets of Pinefield featured more gentle hills than traffic signs. Even in the downtown area there were few other cars passing the lighted storefronts. Mark ignored these icons of his youth as he tried to focus on Bebe and what happened at the dance. But his mind kept going back to Amy and to what happened.
The party had been his dumb idea. To be dumped by a guy you’ve dated for over a year is tough. To have him do it for another guy—devastating. That’s what happened to Amy, and Mark had never seen her so confused and depressed.
So the idea, the hope, had been that a casual beer-bust with friends would kick-start her back to life. It’d been easy to organize. LSU students consider partying a sacred obligation. Springtime parties on the nearby Mississippi River levee are illegal which makes them doubly popular.
Everyone else seemed to be having a great time, but Mark could tell Amy felt miserable. That’s why he kept checking on her and noticed when she drifted from the center of the party and then vanished into the late evening shadows. At first he thought it best to let her be alone. But an arrogant jerk with a long-standing case of the hot’s for Amy seemed ready to follow so Mark changed his mind.
Once away from the noise of the party, Mark heard a stifled, whimpering sound. He followed it to her hide-away behind a driftwood log.
They’d talked for days about the breakup and how rotten she felt. There was more to her mood, however, than just breaking up with a boyfriend, much more, and they also talked about that. By now he didn’t know what else to say. So he sat beside her on the dry, sun-hardened sediment left by the receding early spring high water and said nothing.
A fresh breeze came off the river and she shivered. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. With a low, anguished wail, she buried her face against his chest and began soaking the front of his shirt with what seemed like an endless stream of tears.
When her sobs tapered off, she didn’t pull away and try to apologize. That’s what he’d expected. Instead, she continued to lie against him, silently sliding a fingertip across his soaked shirt. It felt good, very good, and he smiled
That’s when she lifted her face and looked at him. Even with all the crying, she was still beautiful. He’d never been “turned on” by Amy’s looks—neither had Amy. Maybe it was a trick of the mind to protect their friendship. Still, he understood why guys--.
The evaluation of Amy’s beauty came to a sudden stop as she slipped her hands behind his neck, pulled him close, and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was long and erotic and, for Mark at least, changed everything between them. No mental gymnastics could withstand the touch of her lips or the feel of her willowy body in his arms.
The moment Amy’s lips touched his, Mark fell totally, hopelessly in love with his best friend. What he didn’t know was how she felt. Their lips parted and he noticed a look of serenity, or something like that, on her tear-streaked face. But he sensed another, more subtle emotion. With a jolt of disbelief, he realized she was waiting for him to do something. The problem was he had no idea what that should be.
He tried to think, tried to be rational and decide what was best. Amy was wasted, hurt, vulnerable. He’d never taken advantage of a girl, and didn’t want to start with his best friend. But the memory of that kiss, and the way she now kept staring into his eyes, made thinking about anything other than kissing her again, and again, and again, impossible.
This time she didn’t have to pull his face to hers. At some point it occurred to him that Amy was one helluva good kisser. He envied the guys she’d dated.
The next time they parted, he started to say something about stopping. Maybe joke that he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could stand. Only it wouldn’t be a joke.
But Amy snuggled closer and pulled him back onto her mouth. As if on autopilot, his hand slipped under her sweatshirt. Amy shivered and tried to pull him closer. He took possession of one of her breasts, marveling at its firm, silky smoothness. The nipple was already hard. As if handling a sacred object, he rolled it between finger and thumb. Amy responded by breaking their kiss and emitting a low moan.
He took his time kissing her eyes, her cheek, her chin, letting his lips trail down to her neck. There was no resistance as he pushed the sweatshirt higher until her breasts came into view. They seemed to glow in the pale moonlight. A moment later his lips encircled one of her small, hard nipples. Amy gasped and tried to press herself deeper into his mouth.
Once again he told himself he should stop, but his hand seemed to move of its own will down her slim torso. As he fumbled with her zipper, Amy made no move to stop him.
In the most basic, physical sense, he wanted to this woman. And he knew she was his for the taking. But this was Amy, not just some woman. It was hurt, not love, behind her passion. And he wanted to make love with Amy, not screw her. Though sure this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and aching with need, he didn’t want to risk losing his best friend over what, considering his present condition, would be about a two-second burst of ecstasy.
With a resigned sigh, he gave up on the zipper. His lips released her breast and returned to her mouth.
Their tongues performed a lazy dance from one mouth to another. He pulled her sweatshirt down, covering breasts he’d probably seen for the last time. For a moment, he allowed his fingers to caress first one, then the other. He wanted to remember their texture, shape, and warmth.
The kissing became less intense but didn’t stop. He hated to break that last contact with her. Besides, they both needed to cool down before returning to--.
The irate blare of a car horn brought Mark back from the Mississippi levee to one of the few Pinefield intersections with a traffic light. A light he’d just run.
He waved in apology at the offended driver, realized they couldn't see the gesture, felt even dumber, and then headed out of town. If he couldn’t stop thinking about that night with Amy, he better get off the road.
Labels: 1968, dance, small town, southern fiction
Sunday, March 09, 2008
An Evening With Bill and Pat Buckley
What Bill did not add, would have considered extremly bad form to mention, was his being the one who arranged for me to meet his friend, Dr. Castroviejo, the world’s most renowned corneal transplant pioneer, in New York. In addition, Bill paid all expenses, and allowed my mother and me to stay in his NYC townhouse for several weeks immediately before and after my surgery while he and his family were overseas.
What follows is an 1100 word excerpt from my first novel, A Brief Affair. While based on an actual event in 1971, it is not a memoir but a work of fiction with the names of everyone but William and Patricia Buckley changed to protect the innocent, not to mention my scalp.
Bayou Bill
==
An Evening With Bill and Pat Buckley
(an excerpt from: A BRIEF AFFAIR)
by Bill Fullerton
"By the way, do you know what great event is coming up?"
Gwen looked at Mark in bewilderment. "Washington's Birthday?"
"Close, but no cigar. Actually, the great event in question is the birthday of two other outstanding citizens of the world. Namely, St. Patrick and me."
"That's right. Your birthday is St. Patrick's Day."
"Tis true, lassie. And a fine day for the Irish 'twill be," he said, with the first Irish brogue she’d ever heard tinged with a southern accent.
"William Buckley will be celebrating the glorious day with a party at his place. My innate honesty requires me to confess that he and his wife do this every year. It's just a coincidence that it's also my birthday.
"Anyway, remember how I left town early last November and couldn't take you to the get together for his magazine at the Tavern on the Green? Let me make up for that by taking you to dinner there and then going to the party at Bill's place."
"Are you serious? Go to a party at William Buckley's home?"
"Sure, anybody who's recently been groped by a congressman shouldn't have any problem with a bunch of card-carrying conservatives. Besides, I've been assured that everybody on the guest list has had their shots and with the possible exception of one or two writers, they're all supposed to be house broken."
With her heart saying go while her head screamed, run, Gwen tried to stall. "Who's going to be there?"
"Other than a few hangers-on like me, most of them will be people from his magazine. There are two I really want you to meet. When mother and I first came up here, they were super nice to us."
I'm not believing all this, thought Gwen. What would Mark come up with next—dinner with the Mayor at Gracie Mansion? Thanks to Mark taking her to the Mardi Gras ball in Washington, at least she had a decent party dress and wouldn't have to go back to the sales racks at Alexander's.
Two weeks later, a totally intimidated Gwen Kaplan, from Jewel Avenue in Flushing, Queens, walked into a Park Avenue townhouse for the first time in her life. She was a nervous wreck. As promised, before the party she and Mark went to Tavern on the Green for dinner. When they got up to leave, she suffered a total anxiety attack and slumped back into her chair. Shaking her head, she said there was no way she could go.
"Come on, chicken. No guts, no glory," said Mark as he took her trembling hand and pulled her back to her feet.
He cocked his head to one side and gazed with approval at the silver lame' pants suit she had settled upon after days of anguished indecision. "You look even better than usual, babe. We can't waste all that on dinner and a quick trip back to your dorm."
William Buckley was tall, attractive, and charming. Gwen decided he looked and sounded exactly like the cultured, intellectual she had seen on television. After introductions, he asked Mark about both his mother and his eyesight. Just then a tall, elegant, dark-haired woman with the looks and figure of a fashion model joined them. Patricia Buckley wore a pale green outfit which most definitely hadn't come from Alexander's. In comparison to her, Gwen felt like her mother’s old Dodge Polara parked next to a new Rolls Royce.
While talking with the Buckley’s, a smartly dressed, hyper-kinetic brunette came over and kissed Mark on the cheek. "There you are, love. Angie and I have been worried you might not be coming.” The voice sounded like a BBC broadcast, only with more class.
"How could I not show up with all these beautiful women around here," said Mark. He nodded toward Patricia, placed one arm around Gwen's waist and draped the other over the new arrival’s shoulders.
"And this must be Gwen," said the woman, extending her hand. "How are you, I'm Felicia Brice. I've been dying to meet you."
The Buckley’s excused themselves to greet some new guests. Taking Gwen and Mark in tow, Felicia led them across the crowded room. "You two made it in the nick of time," she whispered conspiratorially. "Poor Angie has been cornered by Bruce Atkins, an agonizing death much worse than any fate."
While Gwen had never heard of Bruce Atkins, she automatically sympathized with the unseen Angie. They were approaching a beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde wearing a dark green cocktail dress. She was listening politely to a short, intense looking, man in a plaid sports coat. If that's poor Angie, thought Gwen, the last thing she needs is my sympathy.
The Grace Kelly look-alike proved to be Angie Douglas. She gratefully accepted the rescue offered by the arrival of Felicia, Mark, and Gwen. Before the party was over, Gwen learned that Felicia was Buckley's administrative assistant while Angie served as his chief researcher. They had known Mark ever since his mother first brought him to New York for surgery. Back in those days, when he was still totally blind, Felicia and Angie served as an unofficial support group, especially for the distraught Leigh Cahill.
After his mother returned to Louisiana, Felicia and Angie took Mark under their protective wings. At first, they'd come visit him at the VA after work. Later, when his sight began to improve, they would meet him outside the hospital for dinner.
To Gwen's relief, it quickly became obvious that while both cared for Mark, neither was a rival for his affection. That was a good thing, she decided. Competing with Felicia's witty urbanity or Angie's charm and good looks would have been tough.
When the party started breaking up, Mark suggested they all go for coffee. Out on Fifth Avenue, they piled into a cab and, at Felicia's suggestion, went down to the Fireside Coffee Shop on 35th Street near where both she and Angie lived. By the end of the evening, Gwen felt she’d found two new friends and learned a lot more about Mark Cahill.
After dropping him off at the VA, she headed back to her dorm. As she walked up First Avenue, Gwen remembered feeling sorry for Mark when they first met. To her, he’d seemed like a poor, lonely guy a long way from home. Tonight, she'd learned that poor, lonesome Mark had been going out regularly with Felicia and Angie. There had also been some brief, veiled references to a Pam-Am stewardess.
Gwen wondered if she would have ever gotten involved with Mark had she known about his active social life. Probably not, she decided, grateful for her ignorance.
Labels: 1971, New York City, Pat Buckley, William F. Buckley Jr.
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