Buckley & Fullerton Endorse Obama

Christopher Buckley

I admit without the least hesitation, obfuscation or evasion that the heading for this post, while technically correct, is a mind-bending example of self-indulgent hubris on my part. That said, unless you can come up with another way for me to get my name included with those of Christopher Buckley and Barack Obama, cut me some slack. Okay?

I've never met the junior US Senator from Illinois, but have met Christopher Buckley (aka: William F. Buckley's son) a time or two. The first, and for me the most memorable, meeting being over a pool table out on Long Island where we went over some of the finer points of the grand game. That was way back in the days when he was still a teenager and I was a beat-up 'Nam vet.

Today, I'm still a beat-up 'Nam vet while Christopher has gone on to carve out a rep for himself as a journalist, novelist, and writer of essays, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Buckley

On Tina Brown's new web site, THE DAILY BEAST, http://www.thedailybeast.com/ (recommended, as in, highly) he discussed in the erudite, insightful, and entertaining essay I've posted below why, though the son of conservatism's most famous intellectual icon, he will vote for Barack Obama.

Lacking Buckley's eruditon, insight, and entertaining style, I'll just say: Me, too.

I wonder if the Obama camp has gotten the news about this (fill in the blank) double-endorsement?

(Bayou) Bill Fullerton

note: Since the release of, Sorry Dad, I'm Voting For Obama, Christopher Buckley has resigned from the National Review. For more about the post-article fall-out, go to, Sorry Dad, I Was Fired at THE DAILY BEAST, http://www.thedailybeast.com/

--first published 10/31/08

THE BELLE OF CATAWBA STREET

Inspired by Mel Brooks making fun of Nazis in, The Producers, I decided to try something similar with 500 words of flash fiction based, I'm sad to say, on a real-life event.

This insult to good taste and English letters is part of the Absolute Write Flash Fiction Carnival: http://tinianow.blogspot.com/2007/10/its-carnival-time-again.html

Be sure to visit, read, and comment on the other stories:

Madness of Allies: a Will and Diana Adventure by bunnygirl from Writings

Enter Creepy Calliope Music by Kate Boddie from Finding Boddie: a Simple Way to Snort Your Breakfast

The Hunter by Virginia Lee from Virginia Lee: I Ain't Dead Yet!

Mary's Day Out by Maria Leland from So, You Majored in Creative Writing; Now What?

Rewrite the Universe by Samuel Tinianow from So, You Majored in Creative Writing; Now What?

Bayou Bill

==

THE BELLE OF CATAWBA STREET
by Bill Fullerton


Belle, short for Beelzebub, was the small-to-medium sized by-product of a brief but turbulent liaison between a vicious Rhodesian Ridgeback and a brutal Catahoula Cur hog dog. Her distinguishing features included powerful shoulders, a ridge of bristle-like hair along her spine, dark mottled fur, one milky-white “glass” eye, a paranoid disposition, and an all-consuming desire to protect her human family.

On the night in question, her family was out when two cousins named Jerome and Moose began digging a hole in the front yard, the first step toward leaving a warning from the local Klan in the form of a burning cross. Inside her pen in the backyard, an outraged Belle had heard the noise and was frantically digging her own hole. Nobody messed around with her family’s house.

The cross had just gone up when the men spotted a dark, snarling projectile hurtling their way. Moose grabbed the post-hole digger they’d used and began doing his best to hold off the mad menace while Jerome hurried to set the cross on fire.

Sporadic cries of pain made it clear Moose was having uneven success in avoiding Belle’s teeth. Once the cross began burning, he fought a desperate holding action as Jerome led the retreat back to their truck.

Reaching that sanctuary, Jerome jumped in, cranked the engine, opened the passenger door, and then waited, with some impatience, as his associate lurched backwards into the cab while trying to deny Belle any more samples of his flesh. Once inside, Moose yanked in the protective digger. This sent the handles smashing into the windshield. He ignored Jerome’s angry protests and focused on slamming the door shut before Belle could follow him into the crowded cab.

Headlights began approaching. While still upset about his busted windshield, Jerome stopped complaining and gunned the engine.

It flooded and died.

They had the good luck to be facing downhill. Jerome yelled at his Belle-scarred companion to get out and push. At the moment, however, Belle was doing her best to scramble in through the still open passenger window. This prompted a counter-proposal that Jerome get the hell out and push himself. To his credit, he grasped this logic and complied. As the oncoming headlights got nearer, the truck began inching downhill.

That’s when Belle became aware of the new and very vulnerable target of opportunity standing outside the open driver’s door. She raced around the truck and pounced on Jerome’s unprotected left leg. He responded with a short but sincere string of obscenities, jumped back behind the wheel, and yanked the door shut, just missing Belle’s open jaws and bared teeth.

With remarkable agility for someone suffering from several fresh leg wounds, he shifted into low and released the clutch. The motor backfired, then caught. As they raced away, the burning cross seemed to give them a slow parting bow that ended with it toppling over onto the well-kept lawn.

Left behind among the exhaust fumes and shreds of denim, a small-to-medium sized, mixed-breed dog watched the retreating taillights and bayed in savage triumph.

WAITING IN THE RAIN

A cautionary piece of flash fiction to celebrate this joyous season,

joyous, that is, for certain of those amon us, but not for all.

Bayou Bill

==

WAITING IN THE RAIN
by Bill Fullerton

The cold winter rain told a sad story, and I was listening.

I'm a good listener; always have been. Especially here inside the cemetery—just sitting and listening to the rain, hearing the story, and waiting for Melinda.

We don’t have nice winter weather, just rain. The only thing it’s good for is hunting, mostly for deer. But I don't hunt—not anymore.

Winter became my favorite season because of Melinda. I was driving home after wasting an entire Saturday morning down in the bottoms trying to get that big buck just about everybody, including me, had seen at one time or another.

A car, it was an old raggedy-ass Plymouth Fury, was pulled over on the shoulder of the Barnwell road just about in the middle of nowhere. A woman was out in the rain trying to change a flat. I stopped to help.

That's when I met Melinda. She was going somewhere to see somebody who was some sort of kin. For the life of me I don't remember where or who. What I do remember is that even in a tan raincoat, Melinda, she said her name was Melinda Carter, was about the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. She had these big brown eyes, long, wet eyelashes and a cute little nose. I noticed it because there was a raindrop right on the tip. And even though her lips were a little blue with the cold, her smile could start a forest fire.

I told her to wait in my truck but she stayed out in the rain, holding an umbrella over me, while I changed the flat. That’s when we got to talking. She lived a couple of hours away and was a senior in college. I told her I'd just graduated and was teaching English at the local high school.

With all the rain and mud, it took awhile to change that tire. And I’ll admit, I wasn’t in a big hurry. I didn’t want her to just drive out of my life. But I’m no ladies man and couldn’t figure out what to do. After I’d put everything away and slammed the trunk shut, she insisted I get in the car with her and share some hot coffee she’d brought along.

The rain had stopped by then. She’d taken off her raincoat and pitched it into the back seat. Even in a bulky sweater and jeans, you could tell she had a nice, cuddly figure. So being a gentleman and all, I tossed my gear into my new pickup and crawled into the passenger seat of her old Plymouth.

God, but that was good coffee. Black with a little sugar and still nice and hot. We talked and finished off the coffee. And then while she was putting things away, it started to rain again. We both stared at the rain through the car’s fogged-up windows. Then we looked at one another. And just as I reached out for her, she slid over beside me.

We made love to the sound of the rain drumming against the car. It all seemed so natural, so right. Her body was so smooth and warm. And when she looked up at me, watching while I tore off my clothes, I thought I’d burst. She pulled me down into her as our two bodies became one.

A few weeks later, when I asked her to marry me, she said yes. After that, rainy winter days were always special for us. And now, well, it’s just a reminder of the weather that day I killed her.

It was overcast and raining. I'd been hunting all day and she’d come to pick me up. But I was late. So she put on her old tan raincoat and walked into the bottoms heading for my deer stand where, just for a second, I thought I saw that big buck and then, and then, that's when I killed her.

Now I come out here and listen to the rain tell the story and wait for Melinda. I keep the motor running so the cab will be warm when she comes. And she always comes. We sit together here inside my old truck and talk and listen. And then she wraps me in her arms and whispers in my ear and we make love. That’s when it’s almost like it used to be. But later, when it starts getting dark and she has to go, that’s when we both start to cry.

But she's late today, or maybe I got here early. I'm not sure. Time doesn't mean much anymore. The thing is, I'm getting a little sleepy. So I'll keep the motor running, but maybe close my eyes—just for a minute, though. 'Cause Melinda and I will be together soon, like we always should be. Only it'll be here in the cemetery, inside my truck, in the winter rain.