Grover: Episode 1
"Broken Wings"

                                                      Act I: An Unwelcome Visitor


The bell rope sounded, "ding ding".  I looked up from my work and out the plate glass window at the first customer of the afternoon. Irritated and cussing at the interruption, I tossed down the grease-smudged sketchpad and strolled out the door.

Pushing back my ball hat, I nodded at the man climbing out of the blue Ford F150.

"Can I getcha' something?"

"Fill'er up, Ian.  And gimmie a pack of Reds and an Ale 8 in a sack. Y'all got a phone round here?" he said, glancing at the nametag on my shirt.

I turned towards the door, pointed right, and said "Yeah, around the side by the bathrooms. Jiggle the change handle and it'll give your quarter back sometimes."

He had the look of  a" hygienic trash Elvis".  Freshly washed and clean shaved, but with stringy brown hair falling from a slicked back pompadour styled mess on his head. He wore a fresh white T-Shirt with a pocket, deep blue colored blue jeans, and snakeskin cowboy boots. He was stocky like a linebacker, tall, covered in jailhouse tattoos and thick around the middle. He approached me and I noticed that he had a split eyebrow with a scar. He raised it, along with the other one, pushed out his bottom lip, and looked pleasantly surprised.

"Oh, yeah? Thanks for the info, kid."

"Cheap ass." I thought, abandoning the small bit of hope I had for a tip.

He disappeared around the corner. I headed into the store, questioning why guys driving pickup trucks don't tip gas station attendants. I had learned this over the course of my three days on the job. Perhaps it was because they were working men who felt no need to tip you for doing what they considered to be your job.  Obviously none of those guys were working for $3.75 an hour while trying to save up enough cash to fix a transmission in their hot rod.  If they tried it, they might become more charitable.

The pump rang up the gas a dime at a time. Squeezing the pump handle, I looked North and then South up and down US 27, admiring miles of telephone poles, corn fields and some weeds breezily blowing in the roadside ditch. There was an easy emptiness accompanied by the silence of clouds rolling across a blue sky, the faint sound of a train whistle far off in the distance. I liked it quiet when I was sketching, and now had plenty idle time to sketch. You never know when you might crank out a masterpiece, right?

This trip had lasted two weeks before I dropped the transmission out of my 68 AMC Javelin, doing a burnout in front of the pool hall here in Falmouth, KY. I could handle the girls laughing at my brakes screeching… hell, at least I had their attention… but when that dude with the ponytail started running off at the mouth about his Z28, I had to show him up.

"What the hell is that bucket, some kind of scrap heap mutt?" he said, leaning against his car with two pretty girls as I sat in the Javelin.

"It's a 68 Javelin; a rare car. I guess you don't know much about muscle cars, sitting there on that generic slant six Camaro, Ponytail." I quipped back.

"That's a Z28 with a 305 V8! Not a Camaro, Mr. Goodwrench. I'll run it against your heap of shit any time."

I knew it was a Z, but to me, a Z28 wasn't anything special. Besides, the guy was a dick and I decided to fuck with him a little.  I had run and beaten many Z28's and didn't think it would be a problem.  No 305 with an automatic transmission could hang with my 343, six pack, posi-traction, Hurst 4 Speed, beast of a car.  I decided to show off a bit, thinking it would be fun to kick some gravel up on this jerk and his car.

"How about here and how, dickhead?"

Then I did something dumb… very, very dumb. I dumped the clutch a split second too soon, just before I jammed it into first gear and mashed the gas. The car lurched and succumbed to a horrible fit of grinding, clattering, and clunking. The racing engine sputtered then stalled. I heard fluid running on the ground.

Then, everything was silent for a long moment.

Ponytail and the two girls, along with a few locals broke the silence with roaring laughter as they bore witness to what could have been the most embarrassing moment of my life. Things got funnier for them when three town cops pulled in, lights flashing and sirens blaring, gracing the occasion with all the attention the town had to offer short of a parade. I leaned my head on the steering wheel and closed my eyes in disgust.

I had the Javelin towed to the closest service station for $50.00, or $20.00 more than all the money I had in the world. As luck would have it, Sam, the owner of the wrecker and the Clark service station, officially in the middle of nowhere, was looking for a hard worker for the station. After a short discussion, Sam and I shook on a deal that allowed me to work off the cost of the tow and the repairs.

"Clunk!" The pump shut off, rousing me from my daydream. White Trash Elvis, my only customer since 11:30 am, came around the corner fuming.  I thought he was muttering something about a "no good motherfucking snake in the grass, deadbeat", but I can't be sure. He pushed past me.  In one motion he hopped into the truck, depressed the clutch, turned the key, and reached to pull the door closed.

I positioned myself between the door and the driver, invading his personal space. He glared at me. He was about 35, stocky, and a solidly built, 6'2.

By my fuzzy estimations he had 17 years, 2 inches, and about 80 lbs on me, give or take. His eyes narrowed and his forehead wrinkled, warning me. I stood my ground.

"That'll be $17.50 mister."

"What?"

"$17.50... The smokes, the pop, and the gas. Your stuff is in the bag on the seat there next to you." He stared at me. I was trying to keep him from driving off without paying, and he was either sizing me up ready to do just that, or was too pissed off at someone else to think straight. I didn't really want to take a beating over $17.50, but I'd be damned if I was paying Sam for a drive off on top of everything I already owed him.

After what seemed like a long time he reached into his pocked, pulled out a crumpled $20 bill, and handed it to me, "Sorry kid. Tough day at the office. Keep the change."

The F-150 drove off the lot as I crossed the threshold into the store. I reached over the counter and deposited the $17.50 in the register, claiming my prize of $2.50, which I
shoved into the pocket of my button fly Levis. I grabbed a bag of chips off the rack headed back outside, counting my blessings.

I sat on the wooden picnic bench that ran the length of the plate glass window in the storefront. The bench was littered with carvings and graffiti, and I had decided that as soon as I had paid my dues here, I would leave my mark with the others.  Over Mt. Dew, Little Debbies and cigarettes I contemplated what my exit mark might be.

Through the rest of the afternoon a few customers came and went, mostly I sat on the bench and watching the Holley carburetor clock, waiting for closing time to roll around. 

It was 5:00 pm when I looked at the clock again. I figured I should get busy looking busy before Sam showed up to close the register out. 30 minutes later the lot was clean, trash
was out, the supplies were stocked, and I stood vigilantly in the doorway, flanked with a mop bucket as Sam arrived.

"Hey Red, how'd it go ta'day? Thangs goin' smooth for yuh?"

"Yeah, I got a handle on things."

"Good, Good. I figger ya got about three weeks a-head-a-yuh till were square."

"That's bout how I figger it, too. Taylor, your mechanic, tells me he could have my tranny in by the end of the week, though… far as doin the work goes I mean. You good with that, or you want
we should wait?"

"Uhm, let's give it a week or so."

"Fine by me, I got the time. But, just in case I could run up on some extra money somehow, what would is cost to get me square money wise?"

"Four hundred seventy-five dollars, roughly. You gettin salty about this deal of ours?"

"No. My dad is on the road for another two weeks hauling a load back from Arizona and I'm tryin tah beat him home, is all."

"Well, anyway, here is ten bucks, go gitcha' somethin' ta' eat and I'll see ya back here in the mornin'. Don't worry bout moppin up the pisser ta-day, unless it's really bad in there."

I got my stuff together and made my way round the back of the Clark station to my home away from home… the backseat of my Javelin. I grabbed my bag out of the trunk and went to the pisser to wash my hands and what not. It was past high time for a shower. I had no idea where I was going to find such a luxury. I did what damage I could do in the sink. Washing up and changing had me feeling like a new man, or at least one that didn't stink like hell. I stowed my stuff in the trunk of the Javelin and went in search of a cheap dinner to end the day.

- - - - - - -

I woke up, took a leak, and waited for Sam to come open the store. I ate Little Debbie's doughnuts and sold coffee to the customers till around 9:30 when things began to slow down. After that, things were dead until lunch time.

Back at work on my latest sketch, a beautiful portrait of the gas pump and the rag bucket, I was happy. Nearly and hour had passed and I hadn't done a damn thing. Sam would have a fit if he saw me loafing on the clock. I needed to look busy. I decided to police the lot.  That could make you feel like a crime scene detective. I started by the pay phone where I found an unceremonious pile of cigarette butts and ashes.

The perp was a woman… or a cross dresser… who wore an orange colored lip gloss. I figured she had to be a young woman because you don't see many ladies running around wearing orange lip gloss, and I've heard cross dressers have good taste, so that eliminates them as culprits.

Second, the perpetrator was a party girl. The butts were Marlboro Reds, strong smokes, most ladies smoke lights.

Third, she was trying to hide her Smokers Breath. There was a Double Mint spearmint wrapper mixed in with the ashes. No long term smoker cared much about concealing smoke on their breath… else they wouldn't be smoking in the first place.

So, we had a young woman, wearing orange lip gloss, smoking full flavor Reds, using the pay phone, popping gum and desecrating the parking lot with her litter. Call me Colombo.

I fired up a smoke and went on sweeping.  When I checked the clock again it was 45 minutes left till Sam Time. The lot was clean, trash was out, and the supplies were stocked. 

A blue Dodge Dart slowed. The car pulled in and up to the pump.  The driver had pretty brown eyes and a bright smile.  It was the prettiest face I had ever seen.

"Can I getcha' somethin'?

"Hi. Do you have a restroom?"

"Oh yeah, sure. It's round the side there by the pay phone."

"Great! Give me $5 unleaded please!!" she said, jumping out of the car and trotting off towards the restroom.

Laughing to myself, I heard her scream as I opened the tank.

"It's locked!!! Hurry hurry hurry!!!"

I ran around the corner and found her dancing a jig, holding herself about to cry.

I stammered out "Sorry, it's locked up cause we's about to close up."

"UNLOCK IT!!  HURRY UP!!!"

Nervous, I bumbled with the key ring.  Suddenly, she was quiet. I turned and looked at her, hands and hair hiding her face, legs still crossed. She was sobbing. The poor girl had just pissed herself, and it was at least half my fault.

"Wow, I'm so sorry! Wait here. I'll be right back" I told her. I ran back to the Javelin and grabbed my bag. On my way back past her I dropped the bag at the back corner of the building and called for her to come back there. She shuffled towards me.

"That is my bag.  You can have anything you want out of there that you think will help. In a few minutes nobody but you and I will ever know about this, right?"

Fifteen minutes later she rounded the corner with her chin in the air, a plastic bag in her right hand, cutting a figure of absolute composure and elegance despite the situation. 

I held the driver side door open for her, "Right this way, Ms.???"

"Landry, Ms. Emma Landry." She said with an uncertain grin on her face.

"Right this way Ms. Landry." I said, returning the grin.

She closed the car door, turned the engine, and said to me "I don't know if I should say thanks or not, but I appreciate you going out of your way to help me." She pulled off the lot and headed towards town.

"Hey Red, you got everything wrapped up here?" Sam called to me from the doorway of the store. He had come in while I was pumping her gas, oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded at the Clark Station.

"Yee-uh, things are lookin' good." I smiled.

The next two days came and went as usual. Typical customers, typical conversations, typical boredom. Then after work one day Sam handed me another $10 and I took a walk to town. I was hungry and decided to have a look around to see what my options were.  I ran across a greasy spoon on Main St and went in. The place looked like an antique from the 50's. The juke played Merle Haggard while the handful of diners talked amongst themselves. I grabbed a seat and examined the menu.

"Special?"

"Huh?" I looked up surprised.

"You havin the special? Meatloaf, green beans, mashed taters & gravy."

"Oh, yeah, I s'pose so." I said, looking at the waitress.  She was about 17, and round faced with hips a little wider than she probably cared to for.  I thought she looked familiar but couldn't place her.  She stood there, not looking at me, jotting down my order. When she finally looked up, her expression changed.

Where the hell had I seen her before? The Clark Station?' Her name tag read 'LeAnn".

"LeAnn, I'll have a cherry Coke. Matter a fact get one for yourself." I joked, still trying to place her.

"You're the guy that had his car towed at the pool hall, aintcha'?" she snickered.  My smile started to fade but I managed to maintain my composure.

"Yeah, 'at was me. Where you there?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Hell yeah, I was. You were funny as hell!" Me & Todd still laughin' 'bout that.

"Todd?"

"Yeah, Todd. My brother.. with the Z28?"

"Oh, you mean Ponytail?"

She tossed her hair back, laughing out loud. "Yeah, Ponytail. That's funny, he calls you Red. Red on the head like a…"

"I know, I know, like a berry on a bush."

"You mean like a dick on a dog, dontcha'?!" she shot back.

Wearing half a grin I agreed, nodding, "…or like a pecker on a poodle."

"Order up!" the fry cook shouted. She walked away shaking her head, her big ass swaying side to side, laughing. 

Moments later, meatloaf was steaming in front of me. If I hadn't watched her waddle it over to me, I'd have been worried she spat in it, but I was so hungry I devoured it.  Wiping my mouth I saw her approaching me.

"LeAnn, what time you get off? Maybe I'll stick around and walk you home."

"Kiss my ass Opie."

Okay, I had no shot of having any grudge sex with Ponytail's sis, so I might as well get a rise out of her.

"Come on, an average looking girl like you probably don't get offers that good everyday. How's about it?"

She sneered. "Get the fuck out of here dickhead. I want a man that looks like a man, not a hay stalk."

"But I thought cows loved a mouthful of hay?  You should love me!  MOOO!"

"My brother is gonna whip your fuckin' ass!" she said, her head rocking side to side punctuating each syllable. She went into a complete rant, chasing me out the door. I didn't put up any resistance because I realized as I crossed the doorway that I had just successfully "dined and dashed" on top of pissing her off.

Life was sweet.

                                                 Act II: Getting Acquainted

Trekking back to the Clark Station I looked over my shoulder every few seconds expecting to see the Z28 chasing up behind me. After twenty minutes headlights appeared. The car slowed to a crawl. Hesitantly I glanced back over my shoulder.  I was surprised to hear a sweet voice say, "Need a lift?"

"Emma? Yeah, a lift would be great. I 'preciate it. Guess this means you ain't pissed at me?" I said, realizing even as the words crossed my lips that it was a dumb thing to say.

"That's a bad choice of words, don't you think?"  she said.

I put my face in my hand, and shook my head. "I feel real bad bout that. It was my fault, I'm really sorry, it's just that I was so nervous, the door was locked and..."

"Don't worry about it."

"You forgive me then?"

"I figure one good turn deserves another. Now, let's never speak of it again. Okay?" She laughed.

"No problem."

"So, where ya walkin' to?"

"Uhmmm… the station."

"Oh, you got to work late or somethin'?"

"Nah, my car is there."

"You sure could use it now I suppose."

"Actually, I'm pretty happy to be riding in yours Emma. I'm in no hurry now."  I said, blushing a little.

"So, Clark Station?" she said, blushing back at me, grinning.

"I'm headed wherever you want to take me Emma, that'll be just fine."

Listening to the radio and laughing, we ambled down dark back roads lined with cow pastures and tobacco fields. Emma pointed out haunted barns, car crash sites and the swimming hole, as best she could in the dark.  I couldn't see a damn thing, but pretended just so she would keep talking.  Late that night she dropped me off at the Clark station.

"I'm gonna warn ya, Emma Landry.  I'm gonna be lookin for ya."

"Well, "Red", I'll make sure that I'm easy to find." Emma said, smiling at me.

                                                                 - - - - - - -

Tuesday as I was opening up, Sam stepped out of the storefront sneering. "Hey Red, open up the g'rage and lets push that broke down heap-a-yours inta' the bay."

"Huh? I ain't clear on what I owe ya yet…"

"Nah, but yer' clear on the cost-a the parts. I figured ya' might wanna' start workin' er after hours."

"I ain't got no tools, an I don't know jack about bout fixin' a tranny."

"You proved trustworthy. Ya' can use the tools here. I'll give ya' a hand if ya' need it."

"Shit! That's awesome Sam. Thank ya' man. When can we start?"

"Well start t'night if ya' wanna."

"Hell yea I wanna! But uhmm…"

"But what? Ya' got somethin better ta do?"

"Kinda… I'm sposta'…" After some quick reconsideration I tossed out some words, "Hell, no I ain't got nuthin' to do. Anytime that's good for you is good for me"

I was supposed to go to the Drive In with Emma, but I couldn't pass up this opportunity. That night I closed the station with Sam. We put the Javelin up on the rack and started working.  We worked bout an hour before Emma rolled onto the lot.

"Hey Emma, good ta' see ya'. This is Sam, he's the main man here. Sam this is Emma, the prettiest girl in three counties, probably the whole damn state."

"Nice ta meetcha' Emma" Sam said, giving me an approving smile.

"Pleasures mine, Sam."

"Can I interest you in a pop, Emma?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, a Barqs would be great."

Sam walked through the doorway separating the storefront from the bay.

"You guys fixin' your car?" Emma asked.

Yeah, he kinda just sprung it on me. I know we had plans…"

"Pffft." She puffed. "You need your car fixed way more than I need to see some horror flick at the drive in."

"I figured you would be disappointed about not getting me naked in the backseat." I joked.

"Goodness!  Now THAT WOULD be scary!" she jabbed back.

Sam returned and we went to work, learning more than I ever dreamed about fixing a transmission.  Before daybreak, the work was complete and my car was ready for a test run. The aluminum Hurst shifter was cold but comfortable in my hand, and the gears snapped quickly from one position to the next. The engine, a V8 with three carbs, growled under the hood. The night was alive with energy but the streets of Falmouth were empty. Sam made some looks at the wheel and the tach, and I stopped the car in the middle of Ash St. and hopped out.

"Chinese fire drill, Hoss. Take'er for a spin. You know you wanna."

"Nah, thanks. You just got'er runnin' again, and..."

"Stop acting your age, and get behind the wheel, Pops."

"Pops? I'll show you pops..." Sam grumbled. He jumped out of the car with a snarl. Once behind the wheel, he gave the rear view mirror a jab and chirped the tires as the car fish tailed sideways. The engine was growling and gravel was flying for two blocks "You see any old men round here, Shirley Temple?" I heard him yell over my screams and the engine roar.

"What was that Pop's?  I couldn't hear you over the.."

Right then, Sam floored the gas and punched me back into the seat.

"Buckle up for safety, Junior!" he laughed.

We stopped in front of the Back 9 Sports Bar, the only traffic light in town...and then it happened. Through the open windows we heard a car pull along side of us.

Sam and I exchanged puzzled looks. Sitting next to us was Todd, "The Ponytailed Jackass".

While we hesitated he tore away and left us in a cloud off dust. "What the fuck, Sam? Why didn't you take him? Why did you just sit there?"

"Buddy, that's your beef, not mine."

I was pissed, but Sam was right.  It was my score to settle.

                                                                - - - - - - -

The next afternoon Emma and I listened to the river whisper as our rocks skipped across her.  "Splish splish splish, blump".

"So, I guess this is it?" Emma said

"What do you mean?

"The summer is over.  I'll be leaving to go back to school this weekend and now that your car is fixed, I figure you'll be headed home."

"Yeah.. I reckon so. I've been trying not to think about it. Where is this fancy college a-yours anyway? Is it far?

"I go to NKU in Highland Heights. Its about 30 minutes drive from here."

"Well missy, then it ain't likely seen the last of Yours Truly. I live in Silver Grove, about 15 minutes from NKU!"

"Well then…" she smiled, "I guess that means we haven't seen the last of each other."

"Sheet, a pretty girl like you is gonna have to go a lot farther than that to shake me."

She was beautiful. I found myself brushing the hair from her face and kissing her slowly.
If she was surprised, she didn't show it. I wished that I could stop time right there. It didn't get any better: a lazy afternoon, a fast car and a beautiful woman in your arms.
                                                               -------

                                               Act III: Making Out

The Javelin rumbled down Emma's drive; dogs ran along side the car.  Before I could get both feet out of the car, Emma bounded up with her smile and positive energy. Kisses rained down on me and I did my best to breathe.

"You ready to have some fun?" she asked.

"I'm havin' a great time right now! You telling me it gets better than this?"

"Why hell yes, it does in fact get better than this. You have been chosen to take this pretty gal to the Bracken County Fairgrounds for the Falmouth Fall Fire!"

"Well, whoo-doggey! What the hell is the Falmouth Fall Fire?"

"The Falmouth Fall Fire, fool! Don't tell me you never heard of the FFF?  You been livin' in a cave or what?"

"I've been livin' in a car behind a gas station, remember?"

We rumbled up to the Fairgrounds with the Javelin sounding better than ever.

- - - - - -  -

We walked and talked and laughed.  Emma introduced me to so many people that I couldn't possibly recall their names.  We ran into Sam, who was busy chatting up Millie Farnsworth, a single lady who Emma told me owned Falmouth Antiques & Auctions.  For some reason, Sam seemed anxious to get rid of us.

I wandered back to Emma only to discover that the night was about to take an interesting turn. 

"Well, well.  If it ain't the pump jockey.  Still sleepin' in that heap behind the dumpster?"

Emma grabbed my arm.  "Come on Red, lets get out of here.  There is suddenly a terrible odor here."

I shook my head and scanned the crowd.  "Listen Jackass, I've got all kids of shit I'd rather be doing than looking at your monkey ass.  So, I'll give you a choice.  One, you continue to act tough and I drop you in front of all these people.  Two, you take your football cronies and get the hell on down the road and let everyone get back to having a good time."

Ponytail looked around the crowd, laughing with a big horse grin on his face, looking for approval. "Uhmmm... well....uhmmm. Fuck you asshole! I see you're having my sloppy seconds." he said, looking over at Emma.

Wrong answer.

I made a quick feint in his direction, and like all scared men do, he flinched.  Stumbling over some trash on the ground, he fell on his ass.  I laughed, even his buddies laughed.   He joined the laughter but with exaggerated mock hilarity.

"Well.  That is some funny shit!"

I put a quick double jab down the pipe, landing both with a snap, right on his nose.  "Zap, Zap!"  He was stunned, it was a textbook opportunity to follow up with a right cross that landed in the crook of his eye socket and the bridge of the nose "Crunch!". 

That was going to leave a mark. 

Blood spurted from between his fingers as he held his face, shocked, looking back and forth from the blood on his hands and me, mumbling incoherently. 

"Had enough, bad ass?"  I asked him.

"Damn 'Em, your boyfriend here, just beat up your old boyfriend,"someone hollered from the crowd.

That got my attention...

Old boyfriend?

I drove to the riverbank to get off the road for awhile. Rolling across the two lane bridge into town we passed the local burger joint?

"Hey look there is numb nuts and his buddies!"

I stopped dead in the road, revved the engine to get their attention.  It worked. He started hollering, waving his fist in the air and flying the bird in our direction.  The three of them hopped into the Z28 and and started after us.  I stopped and and waited at the only stoplight in town, directly in front of the the Dairy Queen. I looked over and smiled, shaking my head.  Ponytail glared back.  he had a large bandage spanning the bridge of his broken nose. 

"'Ey fucker  I'm pressingg..."

I hit the gas and pulled up one car length and stopped again. Squealing tires, he pulled up next to us again, fuming. 

"Hey, asshole!  I'm talkin' to you! You ready to do this?"

"Hell yes I am." he screamed back

"On three then..."

"Madame, would you do the honors?" I asked.

"Whew-hoo!  We got us a drag race!  Let me out of this damn car."

She jumped out and stood in the road between the cars.

"When we count three, you guys hit it.  Got it?"

We nodded.

On the wrong side of US 27 Todd was shoving his football playing cronies out of the car, waving his arm frantically and cussing.

Everything around me was chaos, but inside the Javelin it was calm precision.  The V8 was rumbling, as expected. The brushed aluminum of the Hurst T Shifter in one hand, the wood & chrome steering wheel in the other, I revved the engine and it roared like a beast, entirely drowning out Metallica.  I was ready.

From the corner of my eye I could see Todd, one hand on the wheel, one on the shifter.  He was sporting two black eyes and dried blood on the dirt on his lip that he no doubt called a mustache.  He revved his engine, squinted his eyes and looked over at me, his twisted face saying "What you gonna do now, punk!"

I smiled back.  This was going to be fun. 

Emma screamed to us, when I say GO and drop my hand, HIT IT!

Engines revved.

"On your mark--"

My fingers shuffled and got a fresh grip the wheel.

"Get set--"

One foot on the gas, the other on the clutch I raced the engine and held the shifter ready.

"GO!"

Slamming into first I dumped the clutch and the engine was a lion, roaring to life and momentarily pulling the front tires from the ground. Winding out third I glanced into the rear view and saw the Mustang not passing me, not on my ass, but a block behind...sputtering, smoking, the windshield covered in what looked like oil.

A smile crossed my face as I crossed that bridge and whipped a U Turn back.

The crowd around Todd's car was laughing and pointing fingers.  Even his football cronies were snickering and giving me nods of approval. 

When it was finished, she directed me back some winding roads and up a twisting hill to the empty gravel lot next to a tiny church. 

"This is the best stargazing spot in three counties.  Come on."

We spent our last night together watching the darkness pass and the stars sit still.  Breathless kisses followed. The noise of people and laughter woke us the next morning.

All too soon we found ourselves parked at the end of her drive stammering through our goodbyes.  We agreed to keep in touch, exchanged numbers and addresses.

Some long kisses only drew things out, making it more difficult.  "OK. she said, regaining her composure.  I've had enough of your advances Red McKinney, and I am running out of here while I still have some of my reputation in tact."

I watched her as she rounded the large oak on her driveway and went out of site.  I blew a kiss to her, cranked the radio and hit the road. When I pulled into the Clark Station Sam was standing in a circle of men, animatedly flailing his arms in mock horror, apparently telling some type of story.

I grabbed some smokes and a Dew for the road.  "Hey man, you got a minute? Sam, I really appreciate everything you done for me, and all the help with the car.  If you feel I still owe you any money I'll stay and work it off.  If not, I'm gonna hit the road."

"Shit, kid.  I never mind helping someone trying to help themselves.  You are a good worker, and if you ever need some more work, you come back and see me."

I held out my hand.  Sam did the same.  We shook em and smiled at each other as I thanked him again.

Pulling out on to the road, I stopped.  Looked up and down US 27 watching the weeds in the ditch blow back and forth and listened to the sound of clouds rolling across the sky, a train whistle faintly in the background.

A smile crept across my face.  I put the windows down and cranked up the radio a few notches.  Wind blew onto my face and the sun was on my back as the Javelin carried me out of town towards home.  Life was good.


The End.

"Fathers & Sons" - Writing contest entry

Peeking through the blinds, he saw them. The two men stood in front of his building in the early afternoon. Mr. Stubbs, clad in overalls and boots, stood hands in pockets, listening to Mr. Fisher. Mr. Fisher, red-faced, gestured wildly with his arms. Mr. Stubbs pulled off his hat and scratched the back of his head. Mr. Fisher wore dress clothes and shined shoes. By outward appearances one couldn’t imagine what the two men had in common. They took turns speaking and listening. It seemed they were spitballing.

“What the hell were they doing out there?” the man wondered, spying out the window.

Finally, the two men nodded, shook hands and entered the building. The window blind snapped closed and the man behind the desk tried his best to put on the air of superiority and astuteness he displayed for all visitors to his office.

Mr. Stubbs closed the frosted glass door behind them. Stenciling on the glass read “Principal J. Davies”. Everyone was still. All adult eyes in the room shifted between the two boys who were separated by distance but joined by a glare of resentment. The boys were banged up. Black eyes, a split lip, a bloody nose. Their clothes were a mess.

“Thank you for coming so quickly” Principal Davies stood. “I understand you must both have been…”

“I was in the middle of pricing items and placing orders for this weekend’s sale. I’m not happy about being called down here!” interrupted Mr. Fisher.

“Mr. Fisher, your son disregarded school policy and was a danger to himself and others. Our discipline policy dictates that fighting is punishable with suspension.”

“Discipline policy? You should have titled it “Discipline Avoidance Policy”, Principal Davies!” said Mr. Fisher.

“When I was a boy, the principal paddled us till our asses were on fire. Then, if you could walk upright, he put us to work around the school. That was a punishment that worked.” Mr.

Stubbs interjected.

The two boys winced at his words, and stared at the floor, praying that wasn’t going to be the case here.

“How is three days off school a punishment? Coddling these kids is why you get this kind of trouble.” Mr.
Stubbs continued.

Taken aback by the confederation and lack of support for school policy, Principal Davies sat with his mouth open. He was accustomed to mothers showing up, agreeing with him and dragging their children out of his office by their ear.

“Sirs, I’m sorry you disagree with our policies, but I’m sure you agree that our primary job is to educate your children. Discipline is primarily the job of the parents.”

The two fathers looked at each other for a moment, then at Principal Davies.

“Principal Davies, I’m sure you agree that as parents inspect homework, schools should support parents by ensuring children behave while in your care.” added Mr. Fisher.

In the parking lot, the men spoke briefly and departed.

Sunrise lit the tobacco field. Jeremiah Stubbs and his son, Jerry, walked through the pinky orange sunbeams to the barn. Soon afterward, gravel popped under the tires of a black sedan parking outside. Larry Fisher and his son, Brian, sat inside the auto.

“Dad, what are we doing here?”

“Teaching you damn lesson. Let’s go.”

Mr. Fisher carried a paper sack into the barn. Brian Fisher followed his father, but carried only apprehension. The boys exchanged surprised looks. Their fathers stood talking and sipping coffee.

“O.K., boys. Here it is.” said Mr. Fisher. “Mr. Stubbs and I have agreed that Mr. Davies decision to give you a vacation is bullshit.”

“We are going to get to the bottom of this nonsense, nip it in the bud, right here and now.” Mr. Stubbs chimed in, pointing his finger towards the ground for emphasis.

The two boys stood wide-eyed, unsure what was about to happen.

“Let’s clear the air between you two boys. We have our suspicions of the catalyst, but why don’t you tell us your side, Brian?” said Mr. Fisher.

“Jerry here is bothering my girl, Ruby! I gave him fair warning, he didn’t listen, so I had to give him a kicking.” Brian Fisher gloated, eyeing Jerry.

“Jerry, how do you see it?” Mr. Stubbs asked

“Ruby is hardly YOUR girl! She’s been makin time with me since Homecoming!” Jerry hollered.

Both fathers rolled their eyes. It was just as they had suspected

The boys faced off, bickering; two roosters trying to be the Cock of the Walk

Mr. Stubbs separated the boys. Mr. Fisher emptied the paper sack and entered the fray. Suddenly the boys found themselves looking stupidly at the boxing gloves on their hands.

“Go ahead and get it out of your system here, where you can’t get in any more trouble.” Mr. Stubbs said

Shortly, the jawing started and they were at each other. Dirt, curses and punches flew wildly through the barn. The boys fought fiercely, but nobody was seriously injured. After a few moments the battle halted. Both boys, exhausted and beaten, collapsed on hay bails.

“Round three, anyone?” asked Mr. Fisher

Both boys shook their heads, declining.

“Good. What you boys need to take away from this is that Ruby doesn’t care about either of you. She just wants the attention. Forget about her. Last night at the lodge her father told me she’s going steady with
Chet Filmore.”

“Ruby is playing the field! Boys, anyone who will cheat with you, will cheat on you. Mr. Stubbs is right, you are better off without her and her games.“ added Mr. Fisher.

The boys were incredulous. Neither could believe that their dearest Ruby would drop them for the jock, Chet Filmore.

“Now, let’s talk about the work schedule for the next three days.” Mr. Stubbs said, grinning widely. “I got you boys in the tobacco fields today.”


“And I have you unloading delivery trucks tomorrow.” Mr. Fisher said.

“What about the third day?” the boys asked in unison.

The two fathers smiled at the boys. “Friday you will be mowing grass and pulling weeds for Mr. Davies. He finally came around to some common sense.” Mr Stubbs smiled.

"Milo" - Rough draft of a scene from a short story I am working on.

Boulders thundered through Milo’s skull; his eyes fluttered as he shook his head to regain his wits. The right side of his head was pounding; blood was caked on his face. Through the blur and haze he could tell the room was large and dark. A smell of dusty crates hung in the humid, stagnant air.

“Mr. Wilson, are you with us? Hello?” a calm voice asked from the shadow in front of him.

Shaking his head, blinking, Milo looked around the dark room. His eyes stopped on the outline of a man sitting across from him, who was looking at his watch.

“What happened? What’s going on? Who are you?”

“Mr. Wilson, we need to talk. It seems you have something that belongs to my boss. I am here to collect it. I do hope that you choose to work with me so that we can make this quick and easy.” The Man With the Watch said, glancing at his watch.

“I don’t know what you are talking about. What do I have?”

“Shoddy information that you shouldn’t have and questionable intentions that concern us, deeply. We have spent a lot of time and energy building a certain…reputation…and we don’t want it tarnished with slanderous half truths.”

“What? I don’t understand. You must have the wrong guy. Why am I tied up? Where am I? Let me out of this chair!”

“Mr. Wilson. May I call you Milo?”

"What?! Let me the fuck out of here!"

The Man With the Watch sighed and checked the time. “Or what, Milo?” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Let me go…or…or I’ll scream! I’ll scream for help and someone will call the cops!” Panicking, Milo thrashed wildly in the chair, tugging at his restraints and bellowing to be freed.

The Man With the Watch nodded towards the back of the dark room. Seconds later Milo's face exploded in pain as he was sucker-punched from the shadows of his peripheral vision. Flashes of color and light danced before his eyes; senseless, Milo slumped forward in the chair.

The Man With the Watch stood in front of Milo, hands in pockets, looking expressionlessly at Milo. “Remember what I said about the easy way? Let’s get back on task, shall we? First, there are two cops sitting right outside. Don’t you remember how you got here? They really did a number on you with those batons…you might consider a civil suit to cover the medical bills. Second. Give me what I want and quick and don’t waste my time, and we might skip the brain hemorrhage and skull fracture…or not. I sincerely don’t give a fuck either way. And finally, the reason we are all gathered here tonight. Have you heard of a man named Duke Stone?” The man calmly asked.

“No, I have never heard of him!” Milo lied, slobbering and wheezing.

“Well, Milo, he’s heard of you. Guess what? Mr. Stone doesn’t like you, not one tiny bit. That generally means, as you might guess from your evening so far, that you are fucked.“

The Man With the Watch was right. Milo, and everyone in Cincinnati had heard of Duke Stone. He was a legendary mobster in Newport’s mob days who was up to his elbows in violence and corruption. He was untouchable. These days you didn't hear much about him personally, but you might hear about The Duke Stone Foundation. Somehow, in those 60 years since he was breaking legs and running brothels, Duke Stone had managed to use blood money, bribes and blackmail to build the visage of an honest business that donated YMCA’s to poor neighborhoods and money to the Police & Fire Widows Fund and Children’s Hospital. The miracle of social amnesia had allowed Duke Stone to associate himself with philanthropy and disassociate himself from the news reports of bodies being fished out of the river that morning. The public image of Duke Stone was respected, but slightly frightening. A lion on a leash.

In reality, Duke Stone was ruthless and uncaring. His public image was contrived; carefully built over many years to protect his family and open larger and larger sets of doors. Once, collecting a bad debt, the entire tenement in Over the Rhine, where the deadbeat lived...burned for hours before a fire truck arrived. The debtor...and 26 others...died in the fire. Coincidentally, at the time of the fire, The Duke Stone Foundation was sponsoring the Cincinnati River Regatta Festival across town. Every news van in the city was there covering the festivities and the city never heard a word about the fire. Later, with a small portion of the insurance money, The Duke Stone Foundation donated a memorial of the "accident" to the neighborhood. Meanwhile, monetary gifts were discretely distributed to the firefighters. That’s how Duke Stone handled his business: misdirection, annihilation, remuneration.

Milo definitely didn't want to be on the wrong side of Duke Stone. He needed to fix this, give them what they wanted, or his disappearance would become a cold case overnight.

"You...you called me Milo. You know who I am and you have to know that I'm not looking for trouble. I will give you whatever you want. What's this about?" he stammered.

“It’s about damage control. Public relations.”

“The truth? I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”

“That's the problem, Milo. You want to talk. My associates and I prefer the current situation where nobody talks and nobody asks questions. Everyone is minding their own business, and we like that.“

Confused, Milo looked at The Man With the Watch. "What do you...I don't know what you are talking about! I'm just a student. I work at a bar. I'm not talking about anyone!"

"It’s who you are talking to that's the problem. What do you know about Robert Petway?"

"Catfish? This is about Catfish? Suddenly relieved, feeling this was a misunderstanding, Milo laughed a nervous laugh. He's just a guy who comes in on open mic night. He always wears a suit. He's pretty good."

"Bullshit. You two are closer than that. Keep talking."

"He plays that old song, Catfish Blues. He claims he wrote it...but who knows. He's got a lot of stories."

"He does?"

"He….he...he's always talking about the old days when he was a traveling musician! Famous people he met, all the girls he had. He likes to talk."

"Who does he talk to? The man with the watch cut him short."

"Anyone who will listen. You know how old people are. They love to…"

"How often you talk to him?" He said, interrupting Milo again.

"Wednesdays. He always plays at open mic, every Wednesday, even though nobody wants to hear old blues tunes. Some Sundays I go see him at Boothe Hospital. He's got no family and no money, so I take him cigarettes and we sit and talk in the garden at the old folks home."

"Right. Keep going. What's he do for money?"

"I don’t know. Nothing. I guess. It’s a shame someone with that history and talent wound up in obscurity, broke and alone."

"You taking notes?"

"Huh?" Milo said, confused.

"Taking notes. Are you keeping track of what he tells you?"

"How could they know that?" Milo thought. Had he been followed, watched? Holy shit...this was bad....now he understood. Catfish mentioned that he used to work in some of Dukes clubs a long time ago, but nothing specific.

"Uhmmm....yes. I was actually. I am using his life story as part of my Senior Project."

"What?!"

"He…he was glad for the company and I needed the story for my project! If the publishing came through, of course he wanted the money..."

"Publishing? You submitted it?"

“Well…uhmmm… “ Milo thought for a moment. He needed to choose his words carefully. What did they want to hear? If he had already sent it out, the damage was done and they didn’t need him anymore. Not a good scenario. On the other hand, if he still had the manuscript tucked away, they might free him after he turned it over.

“No! I still have it!”

His interrogator smiled. “Good. Very good. Now, how can I get my hands on it so that it doesn’t become a problem?”

"Its on my computer... I could just…"

"The computer in your apartment, or your laptop?"

Milo was stunned that the man knew this much about him. “Uhmmmm….both actually.”

"Where else do you have it saved? Flash drive? Disk? Is there a printed copy?"

"I have it saved in a few places, take me to my apart…."

"Milo, you are not going anywhere until I have every copy of it secured."

"But you need me to…"

"No, Milo. We don’t need you. You are optional. I’ve told you that I can help you if you help me, but you are belaboring things. At this rate you might become collateral damage. Tell me now, exactly where the manuscript and files are and stop wasting my time."

Milo closed his eyes. He knew that if he gave up the information, he was dead weight. Literally. If he didn’t give it up, they would torture him and then kill him. He needed to think of something, and fast.

The Man With the Watch checked the time, again. “Wrong answer, Milo.” He nodded at The Man in the Shadows, lurking behind Milo. “Hook him up. I’ll come back later and see if whatever is left of our boy here wants to stop wasting my time.”

Heavy steps approached Milo from behind. There was some clanging of equipment, then suddenly someone lit a welding torch nearby. An electric sander and a gallon of turpentine were suddenly on the floor at his feet. That got Milo’s attention. “Wait! Wait! Please don’t!!”

The Man With The Watch had turned to walk out. He stopped, looking over his shoulder at Milo. “What do you got to tell me, Milo? I don’t have time for your bullshit. Spit it out now, and do yourself a favor.”

“The laptop. It’s on the laptop and the PC too! Its on both. I can show you the files!! I think I have some pages in my laptop bag and the files along with my flash drive!! Please don’t hurt me!”

The Man in the Shadows, standing behind the chair, pulled a bag over Milo’s head. Everything was dark as a moonless night. Milo began blathering and crying. He thrashed against the restraints like a man in an electric chair.

The Man With the Watch pulled a cell phone from the inside pocket of his shit jacket and dialed a number. “Grab the computers, the laptop bag and anything printed out in his apartment and car.” He hung up the phone and looked at The Man in the Shadows standing behind Milo. “Hold on to him until you hear from me.”

The Man With the Watch stepped outside and took a deep breath of the night air. He looked at his watch. “Good. We still have a little time.”