Friday, August 17, 2007

COLD BEER AND GREASY FRIES - chap two


This is chapter two of my second novel, We Danced to Ray Charles. The protag tries to figure out life, women and himself. What follows reflects changes suggested by Robert Flynn. As always, any input would be greatly appreciated. Reading the two previous posts: Prologue and The Dancers is advised.

Bayou Bill

==

COLD BEER AND GREASY FRIES
by Bill Fullerton

The main cemetery in Pinefield was a large, landscaped, park-like area. The grandfather Mark had loved so much was there. So was the grandmother he never knew and even some great-grandparents. A nearby bench was his thinking spot. He headed that way.

But it was a date night. The cemetery’s secluded far-side served as the town’s leading lover’s lane. So much for being alone to think. Besides, hunger called. The one place in town still open, the all-night Hilltop Café Motel and Truck Stop.

He parked near the café’s front door, got out, and heard the insistent wail of approaching sirens. Out on the main highway, three Sheriff’s Department cars raced by heading toward town with their lights flashing. He wondered what all the excitement was about, then shrugged and headed for the glass door with its sun-faded sign that proclaimed,

“WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO YOU”

He’d seen that sign, and untold numbers like it, many times during his twenty-one years on earth. Most went unnoticed—which he preferred. But tonight, something made him stop and study the old sign. It had once been bright and defiant. Now, like the hatred it represented, it was fading but still around.

Mark shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind of the past, then opened the door and stepped into the over air-conditioned, neon-lit café. A few couples were sitting in the back booths. None looked familiar. Out-of-town kids, he guessed. A lot of them stopped in after dates to check each other out for telltale signs of drive-in passion. After a quick burger, they’d rush home to beat the girl’s midnight curfew.

A familiar figure stood at the business end of the Hilltop’s pinball machine, The Blushing Beauty. By even the most tolerant of standards David Clyde Wright was a strange life form. By Pinefield standards he was way off the scale. His more distinctive features included long, stringy hair, and the beginnings of a beer gut. He also had a goofy, don’t-give-a-damn smile some girls insisted was cute.

Friends and law enforcement officers alike called him, D.C. Both groups agreed he was every bit as odd as he looked. Among other things he was a self-destructive, semi-alcoholic, anti-establishment free spirit.

D.C. was smart, but in an odd, D.C. sort of way. After being expelled from high school for repeated violations of most school codes, he got his equivalence diploma before the rest of his class graduated. Unlike his former classmates, he read Dylan Thomas and William Faulkner because he liked them.

Everyone in town knew he operated the printing press for his family’s weekly paper, “The Standard.” But few suspected he wrote many of the articles which appeared under his father’s by-line. Mark knew. By some strange amalgam of interests, they were long-time friends. And while total opposites, they could share certain secrets and count on one another for candid advice.

Unlike his anti-social friend, Mark was a big, easy-going guy. He’d been an athlete in high school. Back then he kept his hair short. Now it was a well-barbered, collar length. And while D.C. took the concept of casual clothing to an extreme, Mark dressed like the fraternity member he was. However, both men liked sports, Bob Dylan, and William Faulkner.

At the counter, Mark asked for two burgers and a large order of curly fries. The sour-faced, older woman D.C. had nicknamed, “Winona, the Woeful Waitress,” took his order in silence. After checking his hair in the mirror next to the “George Wallace for President” poster, he walked over and stood beside the machine. While a new ball was being put into play, he asked, “So what’s a guy like you doing in a nice place like this?”

Bells rang and lights flashed. D.C. kept his gaze focused on the shiny, darting, steel ball. “Getting my scrawny ass whipped by this damn machine.” As if to validate his remark, the ball ricocheted off a bumper at an unexpected angle, sped past the outstretched flippers, and disappeared from sight.

A short but emphatic string of obscenities followed, punctuated by D.C. slamming his palms against The Blushing Beauty. It responded to this assault by flashing, “TILT” and ending the game. Like two mourners viewing the body of someone who died owing them money, they pondered the treacherous machine’s dimmed lights. It was D.C. who broke the unnatural silence. “You know, it could be worse. I could be Chinese.”

“I’m going to hate myself for asking,” said Mark. “But, how do you figure that?”

“Just think, Cahill. There’s about a billion of them over there. And not one of those poor, thirsty, commie devils has a single Budweiser to drink.”

“Well, that does put your loss in a different perspective.”

His point made, D.C. turned his head and looked at Mark. “I wondered when you’d show up. Want a beer?”

“Why’d you think I’d come in here? And yes, I’d like a beer. I’ll even contribute the two burgers and curly fries I’ve got coming.”

“Cold beer and greasy fries. God is indeed good to the young and beautiful,” said D.C. his voice rich with solemn irreverence. “You had to show. Your head would be too screwed up from dancing with Bebe Boudreaux to go home.”

They’d been drifting over toward the worn counter. Now they sat on plastic covered, backless stools and waited for Mark’s order. “And you knew I’d danced with her because…?”

“Because who do you think took over the hi-fi when he saw you talking with Bebe and played all those slow Ray Charles songs? You owe me big time, Cahill.”

“It’s a debt I’m sure you’ll never let me forget. Not after you learn we’re going out next weekend.”

D.C. stopped lighting a cigarette to give Mark a look of genuine surprise. “A date? Damn son, you’re a fast worker.”

“With you as disc jockey, how could I fail?”

“So true. By the way, I didn’t see Amy at the dance. Is she still sick as the proverbial heaving hyena?”

Mark nodded. “Yep. But I called over there before I left for the dance. Her dad said she’s on the mend.”

“What do you think is gonna happen when she finds out about you and Bebe? Now I know you and Amy are just good buddies and all that jazz. But the last time I checked, she and Bebe weren’t what you’d call a mutual admiration society.”

“I’ve quit trying to figure out Amy Marshall. I suppose she may give me a hard time. But all we’re talking about here is one date. So she’s not going to care, at least not that much.”

D.C. reached for an ashtray. “Well, what about old buddy Bob and that time in high school when he asked Bebe to the prom? Best I recall, instead of just saying no, she called him everything but a one-legged son-of-a-bitch. And then there’s Willie, one helluva great guy, especially for a preacher’s kid, who just happens to be black. I suppose you know Bebe’s old man’s now the boss of our local sheet-heads.”

“That’s bullshit. He’s Cajun. They don’t join the Klan, much less become honchos. As for Bob, he’s so wrapped up with the luscious Libby I doubt he’ll even notice. And Willie, well, we’ve been friends about forever, give or take a day or two. I should be okay with him.”

“All right. But what about if you and Bebe click and go on more dates?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“But what if it does? Outside of maybe being a tad envious, I don’t give a shit. But what if you had to choose between Amy, Bob, Willie, and her?”

The arrival of Mark’s order saved him from dealing with that uncomfortable question. A few minutes later they were in D.C.’s old GMC pick-up, drinking beer and eating curly fries while driving past the modern, soulless structure that served as both parish courthouse and jail.

As was his long-standing custom, D.C. spit out the window in the general direction of the courthouse. “Since you were sitting with Skeeter, I suppose you heard that Connie Jackson had a baby girl?”

Mark nodded. Connie’s husband, Tommy Jackson, was in Vietnam. A gifted, all-state, running back, he’d married Connie right after graduation and gone to college on a football scholarship where he started on the freshman team. But then he surprised everyone by dropping out and joining the Marines.

“I’ll never understand why T.J. pulled that stunt,” said Mark. “How long before he’ll get to see his baby?”

“And the baby’s good-looking mother,” said D.C.. “But to answer your question, over three months.”

The topics of conversation moved onto life, love, and Mark’s long-standing obsession with Bebe Boudreaux. “I was glad to help,” said D.C., “you know, by playing those records and all. But I’ve never understood why you’re so hung-up on that little coon-ass. Granted, she’s sexy as hell. I mean, I’d nail her for a quarter even if she didn’t pay me.”

Both grinned at his old joke, then D.C. shook his head, “But, man, you know the drill, ‘If they will, screw ‘em. If they won’t, screw ‘em.’ But it’s Bebe whose been screwing you over since the day she first came dragging into town. So why this fascination with her?”

They headed out of town in silence. Mark finished his beer and, in compliance with local, male tradition, tossed the bottle at a passing speed limit sign. He missed. “It’s like this. All my life I’ve been a nice guy. It’s just the way I am. I’m the peacemaker, the polite type mothers always like, a team player, a real competitor. But I’m also the one who’s always the runner-up. I might win a sportsmanship trophy or get ‘honorable mention’ but I never, ever, win it all.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You’ve won a lot of things.”

“Like what? Okay, maybe there has been one or two. But I’m talking about feelings as much as reality. And I’ve always felt like an also-ran in a world of winners. Just think about it, Willie won a state title in high school and now plays for Grambling. Bob was All-District before blowing his knee out, and don’t forget, he dates the luscious Libby.”

D.C. crossed himself and muttered, “Blessed be her name.”

Mark ignored this and continued the litany of his friend’s accomplishments. “Amy was a cheerleader, district MVP in basketball, and homecoming queen—twice. And she’s so damn good-looking. I swear it scares a lot of guys off. And then there’s her big brother, Walt. How’d you like to have ‘all-everything Walt’ for a role model? Don’t get me wrong. He’s been like the big brother I never had. He taught me everything from how to shoot a rifle to the facts of life. But there’s no way in hell anyone can ever match his style. Much less all the stuff he’s done. And now folks say he’s a war hero.”

Mark took a cigarette from the pack D.C. had laid on the seat and pushed in the lighter. “Did you know my dad was a Golden Gloves champ, you know, boxing?”

There was a note of admiration in D.C.’s, “No shit?”

“No shit,” said Mark. “Of course, the best I could ever do was honorable mention all-district in football. My mother was a homecoming queen. And we both know I’m never going to Hollywood with my looks. It’s like I got their worst features.”

Mark paused to light his cigarette. “Oh, you’re gonna love this one,” he said, shoving the lighter back into place. “Last summer, I was visiting some of mother’s relatives in Mississippi. One of my cousins, a real doll, wasn’t able to get me a last minute date. She gave me this apologetic look. Then she said I wasn’t that bad looking. The thing was, girls might give a guy like me a second look, but never a third.”

D.C. laughed. “If either of us has to count on our looks for a meal ticket, we’ll starve.”

“Speak for yourself, oh, skinny-assed one,” said Mark. Then his smile went away. “The thing is, Bebe’s just flat-out turned me on ever since junior high. But if there’s anything more to my wanting her than just hormones, it’s that for me, she’s the ultimate prize, the blue ribbon, the first place trophy I never won. Because I promise you, when she agreed to a date, it made me feel like a real winner.”

As they drove back into Pinefield, Mark flipped his half-finished cigarette out the window. “There’s one other thing. But this is just between you and me. Okay?”

“Lay it on me, big guy.”

“Just before finals, some of us threw a party on the levee. And, well, there was this girl, we were friends, but that’s all. She’s the type normal guys don’t stand a chance with. You know what I mean?”

D.C. nodded. “You’re talking high-class, drop-dead gorgeous, running around baying at the moon, beautiful.”

“You got it. Anyway, somehow we wound up making out. Nothing more, sad to say. But now I’ve got it bad for her, real bad. The thing is, every time we meet she acts like nothing happened. It’s pretty obvious I’m still just a friend to her. And that means if I try anything, odds are about a million to one all I’ll do is screw-up our friendship. I mean, there’s no hope in hell. She’s so far out of my league it’s not funny. So it makes more sense to try getting her out of my mind. And who better to help a guy do that, than Bebe Boudreaux?”

“That makes sense. Just one question.”

“What’s that?”

“Is Amy a good kisser?”

“She’s incredi--.” Mark caught himself and glared at D.C.. “Who did you say? I mean if it was Amy, you’re so full of shit you, uh….”

The emotion drained from his voice and the words trailed off as his anger turned to disgust at himself. “You always could read me like a damn book. You’re right. She was ripped and vulnerable and it’ll never, ever, happen again.”

They drove back to the Hilltop in silence. In the parking lot, D.C. stopped Mark from getting out. “Look, I promised to keep this between us and I will. But, you know, it’s hard to believe I feel sorry for someone who’s made out with Amy Marshall and has a date lined up with Bebe Boudreaux.”

D.C. draped his arms over the steering wheel. The red glow of his cigarette reflected on the cracked windshield. Mark was used to these sudden meditations, and sat back to wait.

With a sigh, D.C. looked over. “But 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.”

Mark smiled. D.C. didn’t. “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.”

Labels: , , ,

2 Comments:

Blogger bunnygirl said...

There's a lot of good stuff here. But I wonder if the conversation goes on a little too long, especially where Mark is talking to DC about Amy, Bebe, and his complicated feelings about them.

As a woman, I have no idea if guys really talk this deeply about their feelings and motivations when they're together. You surely know more about it than I do!

But as a reader, I find myself wondering why all the analysis about Bebe? The guy who couldn't get the hot chick to give him the time of day suddenly has a chance to go on a date with her. So he asks her out with no regrets. There's no mystery to his motivations at all, in my mind. And I suspect another man would see even less mystery.

Louis XV, when asked why he liked the Countess du Barry, famously said, "She's pretty, she pleases me, and that should be enough." To me, this more than adequately sums up the motivation of an unencumbered man (or woman) to go on a date with an attractive person of their choosing. :-D

Anyway, some of this just feels a little backstory-y to me. It's good that you as the author know all this about Mark's past, but does the reader need to know? If so, is this the right time and right method to give this information?

In all, though, I'm enjoying your story. You write well. How much of it do you intend to post?

As a general disclaimer to my critique, I've been told my writing is a little too lean, making the reader figure out too many things on their own. So everyone's taste is different, and if I'm the lone voice saying Mark told too much, please just ignore me. :-)

3:23 AM  
Blogger Bill Fullerton said...

Bunnygirl,

Many thanks for the feedback. I'm always trying to knock out excess verbage so I'll go back over the conversation to see if there's any more that can be cut. However, there's a far slug of sub-plot going on. The first chapter might have cleared up some of your confusion. If not, this sucker may never see print. :o

Thanks again

7:43 AM  

Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home