I found it difficult to change from the country boy’s voice, I used in my middle reader fiction series, to a profane, modern educated man recounting a college love story. The voice I used in Choices.
Take a quick read from one of my earlier posting. Either The Red Scarf or Lyin’ Like a Sorry Yard Dog, and then compare that voice with the voice in Choices. I think you’ll see my problem. I have posted chapter one of Choices below.
CHOICES
BY
STUART CARSON–Richard Mason’s pen name
Chapter 1
Choices
June 12, 2005
I guess it was my fault. Yeah, it was, but who likes to admit that they screwed up? It’d been a hell of a week for me. Oh, I don’t mean stuff with my business or problems with my grown kids. It was a lot deeper than that. Over the years I’ve gone through periods of depression, and that week I kept sinking lower and lower until, on Friday, I was barely able to function at work.
Of course, I really didn’t even need to show up for my business to carry on. My staff could keep things running quite well without me, so I spent most of Friday brooding with my office door shut. When my door is shut, it’s like a red flag that the boss is out of sorts. Yeah, I was going through one of those dark moods again. Hell, I walk around town like a self-made man, always in control, but that’s just posturing. I’ve secretly been seeing a psychiatrist for over a year. It’s taken her most of the year to dig through all the barriers I’d put up, but during our last visit she brought out some things that disturbed me. Hell, let me be honest: It was a lot more than just “disturbing” to me, and, after that session, I was shaking with regret.
By about two that afternoon I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I bolted out of the office, leaving my staff wondering what was going on. I knew exactly where to go. There’s a place down on the river called Pigeon Hill, where giant beech and pin oak trees are clustered around a steep bluff. When the first settlers arrived in south Arkansas, it , ,,was a roost for Passenger Pigeons. As a boy I had hunted squirrels up and down the river, and that spot always had a calming, head-clearing effect on me.
In a few minutes I’d pulled off the pavement, and, after another fifteen, I arrived at a locked gate meant to keep trespassers off the property. I ignored the gate, walked around it, and was soon leaning back against one of the big beech trees, looking out over the river. For a while things were better. Maybe it was the peace and calm, which assured me that everything was going to be all right. There have been times when I’ve pulled away from my family and my work just to contemplate life. Am I going in the right direction? Should I do this or that? The questions over the years have changed, but they have always been there.
Questions—always questions, and sometimes I have reflected back and wondered if some of the choices I’d made in life were the right ones. But, you know, it’s human nature to try to justify your choices. We all do it, and, after you’ve justified those choices long enough, you actually believe that you made the right ones, even if you didn’t. Well, a good psychiatrist sooner or later will make you face up to some decisions, especially the ones that have been really bothering you. And when that happens, it can be very therapeutic—or very troubling.
Deep in my past was a choice that had tormented me for years.
It was almost dark when I walked back out of the woods. I wish I could say, as I have so many times, that I felt refreshed and sure of my direction in life. However, the depression was even worse, and I was mumbling some long-suppressed regrets. I felt as if I had no direction in my life.
My habits are so rutted that being two hours late coming home from work, and missing from the office since two o’clock, had my wife fuming. With the irritable attitude I was bringing home, I knew we were in for a rocky night, but I never dreamed that it would turn out as badly as it did.
“Hey, I’m home,” I yelled as I walked in from the garage. The back door banged behind me, shaking the pictures on the wall in the hallway. My wife wheeled around with her hands on her hips. Not a good sign, but she let the door-slamming slide.
Our conversation was civil for a few minutes. I thought maybe we could relax over a martini and manage to get though the evening, but, before I could mix the drinks, she said in a flat, mater-of-fact manner, “Not even going to have the courtesy to tell me where you’ve been?”
You know, when you’ve been married as long as we have, you’re able to pick up little nuances. Sure enough it was there, that tight-lipped, cocked-head attitude. I could feel the prick of disgust, but I held my temper.
“Had to drive over to El Dorado to look at a geologic log… How about a martini?” Hell, I figured a little gin might salvage the evening.
My wife was shaking her head before the words were even out of my mouth, and it wasn’t because she didn’t want a martini. I pulled out the Bombay Sapphire and started to make our martinis.
“You’re lying, Sandy. Your secretary said you’ve been in one of your rotten moods all day, and then you just walked out. Looking at a log in El Dorado? Now come on, Sandy, were your iPhone and fax down?”
Hell, I knew better than to push the lie after that.
“Damn, can’t I go to the pot without checking in?” I turned my back to her and went back to pouring the gin.
“What’s wrong with you, Sandy?”
She had that look that has always been able to melt me. I swear, if she didn’t have such a forgiving heart, we would have been divorced years ago. Most of the time I’ll soften up and put my bad mood aside, but for some reason I couldn’t shake it.
“Nothing—still want that damn martini?”
The sharp comment made her shake her head and turn toward the living room. She muttered, “I guess,” before walking away.
Over the years my wife and I have developed a habit of having one martini before dinner, sitting back listening to jazz, and relaxing while we unwind. That night didn’t look very promising, but, hell, I thought maybe a martini would give me some relief.
We sat down, and things went fairly smoothly for about half an hour, but trouble was brewing right under the surface, and we both knew it. Usually, we sip our drinks slowly while we talk, but I finished my drink quickly and cut off the conversation.
“Hey, let’s have another martini. I really need it tonight.” That wasn’t a question; it was more of a demand, and I saw her take a deep breath before she answered.
“Sandy, we always stop at one. We’ll feel terrible tomorrow if we drink another.”
“I don’t care about tomorrow. Do you want one or not?” I knew that was a snappy, rude response, but she took a deep breath and said, through tight lips, “Well, I guess if you’re having one, fix me one, too.”
I didn’t answer her except for a shrug of my shoulders. Tension was rising, and we could both feel it.
Looking back on that evening, I’ve always been tempted to blame what happened on the second martini. But it wasn’t the second or even the third martini that caused the problem. The problem was there, and even stone-cold sober, sooner or later it was bound to boil to the surface.
Normally we talk nonstop about our day, the latest town gossip, or where we’re going on vacation. But we drank that second martini without saying a word. The room almost felt suffocating to me. And as my wife’s lips got tighter and tighter, I knew it was only a matter of time until we went into one of our classic, screaming fights.
“Hey, I’m having another. How ’bout you?”
She l l looked at me, her head tilted slightly back, and her steely gaze told the whole story—wow, was she mad. I knew I’d crossed the line, and now the woman who loved me dearly had been pushed too far.
“Sure, why not?”
She spit out the words out like bullets.
That surprised me, because my wife is an exercise freak, and having something extra to drink is one thing she never does. Now more than a hint of disgust, barely hidden below the surface, came with that “Sure…”
She crossed her legs, leaned forward on her elbows, and waited for me to sit down. Hell, I knew what was coming. That was her attack posture. I straightened my back and waited for the blast.
She grabbed the third martini out of my hand, spilled about a quarter of it, and started in on me.
“Sandy, I’ve just about had it with these moods!”
Damn, when she started out with that high-pitched near-scream, I knew she was about rip into me. Looking back on that night, I sure couldn’t blame her.
“Sandy, you’re not even good company drunk. What’s wrong with you?”
Of course, she didn’t wait for a reply. She kept digging, and in seconds she had ended up exactly where I didn’t want her to go.
“Let’s see, you’re not drilling anything, so it can’t be a dry hole. Hmmm…”
That woman had more insight than anyone I’ve ever seen, and, after a few minutes of probing, she managed to zero in on the problem. But she didn’t understand, not one little bit. I guess I couldn’t blame her. With a nod of her head, she said, in a near-whisper, “I’ll bet I know.”
I could feel the assault coming like a rushing wind as she raised her voice to a shout.
“Depressed about her again, aren’t ya?” The words had a cutting, shrill edge and promised more of the same. Then she went through the irritating motion of raking her fingers through her hair. God, when I saw that, the warm-up for a real blast, I gritted my teeth and got ready. That was just her opening salvo, and, knowing my wife as I do, I knew she was going to have a lot more to say. Of course I tried to cut it off, but she was wound up.
“Oh, please, surely you’re not going to go through that again? Don’t overreact!” I yelled. “I mean it! Don’t overreact!” I’ve hit her with that line for years, and I knew just what the response would be. Yeah, I had just punched one of her hot buttons.
“Overreact? Why not? God, how can I not react to someone who’s been hanging over this marriage for decades? Let’s talk about her! Get her out on the table! I want you to talk about her until you’re blue in the face! Come on, Sandy, get it out! Say you made the wrong choice!”
Maybe it was my imagination, but the word “choice” seemed to echo through the room.
She’d punched my own button now, and I responded just as I had hundreds of times before. But tonight I was on another level of anger and depression, and—yes—I was drunk.
“Hey, don’t you mention her again, you hear me, Mrs. Fat Ass!” Ha! I could see her seethe when “fat” hit her. That was another one of my favorite buttons of hers to push, and I smirked as I leaned back on the couch and took a sip of my martini. Take that! I thought.
She glared at me, spitting her words out through pursed lips.
“Bring her up again? Look, Sandy, you’ve brought her up for the last forty-five years! My God, last week when they put you under for that little colonoscopy you mumbled her name!”—Then she leaned back, carefully enunciating her words. “Can’t forget that last night in Fayetteville, can you?’ Those words just slipped out of her mouth like slime.
That word “Fayetteville” was loud enough to break glass. Hell, over the years we’ve tried to forget that night, and we’d never really talked about it, but now, after forty-five years, she had finally brought it up. It was like a knife had been driven into my chest. I barely breathed for a few seconds as the words penetrated the depths of my soul.
I tried to recover, but my breath was coming in short jerks, and my face turned from a splotchy drunken red to a pale, sallow white. My hands shook, but I managed to take another swallow of my martini while glaring at her. I couldn’t believe how that woman could jerk me around. It was all I could do to just sit there.
“You’re lying! Lying!” I slurred, beginning to lose control.
There it was—that look of disgust I’d seen so many times. Then she pointed her finger at me, twirling her head as if she were speaking to a lowlife dog, and threw another zinger.
“God, you’re so sick and obsessed that nothing goes through that pea brain of yours! You strut around town like you’re some big deal—God’s gift to Magnolia! Don’t you know people think you’re just rich trailer-park trash?”
I’m not kidding, that really ticked me off. Well, I guess I do have a thin skin when it comes to how people in Magnolia think of me. I’ve worked like a dog to pull myself up from the pits of poverty, and I’ve given that town more than you can imagine—a lot more than so-called “old” Magnolia. First she brings up that last night in Fayetteville, and now she belittles everything I’ve done for the past thirty years. I was so mad and out of control that I could hardly speak.
“You worthless!—Worthless!”—I couldn’t think of anything else to say for a few seconds. Then I added, “I ought to throw this martini in that double-chinned face of yours!” Boy, did that double-chin punch nail her. Hell, she had to put her martini down, she was so mad. Yeah, that’s a good comeback, I thought as I leaned back on the couch and gave her a little smirk.
It took her a few seconds, but then she tossed off the double-chin remark like it didn’t matter. She shook her head and laughed as she pointed to where my martini was sitting.
“Ha! You haven’t got the guts to throw that martini! If you so much as touch me, you’ll regret it for the rest of your sorry life! How would you like for the divorce papers to read, ‘spousal abuse?’ Try to live that down, Mr. Magnolia! So get out of my sight!”
She took a big sip of her martini as she flipped her hair back, knowing that she had pretty much nullified everything I’d just said. God, I loved that woman but she could absolutely drive me crazy. Of course, I was speechless. What do you say after someone has nailed you with the absolute facts, and you both know that they’re true? I’ll show her I thought. Then I reacted like some stupid drunk. I walked over to where she was sitting, and threw the last half of my martini in her face.
Of all the rash things I’ve done over the years, I’ve never regretted anything as much. I knew I’d crossed the line. She looked shocked for a second because in all of the arguments and fights we’ve had, I’d never touched her. She slowly wiped the gin from her face, and I immediately began to feel remorse about what I’d done. There was a fiery glare in her eyes, so intense that it made me step back. Then she leaned forward, made a sweep of her arm, and cleared the table of her martini glass, two candles, and a vase full of flowers.
“Wait! Stop! Are you crazy?” I began waving my hands, but she was so mad that I had to take another step back to get out of swinging range. I yanked out a handkerchief to wipe her face as I tried to mouth the words “I’m sorry,” but it was way too late for that. She was out of control, looking for something, and then her eyes fixed on the glass-top coffee table in front of her.
“Hey! Stop! What in the hell are you doing?”
She’d picked up a big trilobite fossil that I’d brought back from Morocco, and I thought for a moment that she was going to throw it at me. I backed off another couple of steps and raised my arms to catch it. I’d been deep in the Atlas Mountains, doing surface geology for Exxon, when a young boy came up to my car and held out the most perfect specimen of a large trilobite that I’d ever seen. It was about eight inches long and maybe four inches thick of solid rock. God, don’t let her break that fossil, flashed through my mind.
“Don’t throw that! It’s a perfect trilobite, and I’ll never find another one like it!” I jumped around in front of her and put up my hands to deflect or catch the heavy rock. But she stared at me, and, without saying a word, turned toward a tall glass case that contained my collection of Pre-Columbian figurines and pottery. I’d spent twenty years buying them at Sotheby’s, Santa Fe, and even in central Belize. I had collected four shelves of figurines and pots—mostly Mayan and Colima. Then, a few years ago I had found an eight-foot-tall glass case in an antique store, and managed to get my entire collection in one display. The case had a solid front of curved glass, good lighting, and a motion-detector alarm.
“No! No!” It all happened so suddenly that just the thought of what she was about to do froze me in my tracks. I gasped and watched in horror. She drew back and threw, and I dived toward the case. I’ve played out the scene in my mind many times over the last several months, and that moment always seems to be in slow motion—the heavy fossil rock flying out of her hand and heading for the case. I could feel my body tense as I reached for the fossil, which cleared my outstretched hands by inches. I fell sprawled out on the floor in front of the case. I remember hearing one thundering crash followed by more and more crashes, and then glass and pieces of Mayan pots cascaded down on me. The fossil had hit the glass case above the top shelf, shattered the front of the case, and then collided with a priceless Mayan pot, smashing it to pieces.
But what happened next was unbelievable. The rock smashed against the next glass shelf, breaking it, and the contents of that shelf toppled down onto the next shelf, which also broke. Then everything from the top two shelves hit the third, and the whole mess collapsed in a pile of rubble. Pieces of Mayan figurines and broken pottery were scattered across the base of the case, and the living room floor, and the motion detector railed an alarm.
I staggered to my feet, brushing off glass and fragments of Pre-Columbian pottery. Then I stood there in a drunken shock as I looked at my priceless collection, destroyed in an instant. It took a few seconds for it to sink in: my wife had destroyed Pre-Columbian art worth about half a million dollars.
“Oh, my God, Sandy, I didn’t mean to do it! Oh, God, no!”
She staggered back, sank down on the couch, and buried her head in her hands, sobbing.
When I looked at my pride and joy,d destroyed in such an irrational act, I knew that I couldn’t live with her for another minute. I walked out the front door and never looked back, and the next day I filed divorce papers.
Maybe, when she destroyed my Pre-Columbian pottery collection, it gave me the reason I needed to file the divorce I’d been wanting for years. She was right about one thing: That last night in Fayetteville was still as vivid in my mind as if it had happened a week ago.
Some literary agents will tell you that the first five sentences make or break your novels chances of being considered by an agent or publisher. Surely not! I don’t believe that for one minute, but having a good first chapter may be critical. With the amount of material that is flooding the publishing market today, many agents and publishers don’t get past the first chapter of a novel. What should that first chapter do? It should do two things–introduce the story and hook the reader. The later part of this post is the first chapter of the sequel to The Red Scarf. Take a quick read and let me know what you think.
Lyin’ Like A SORRY YARD Dog
By
Richard Mason
Chapter One
My Twelfth Birthday
September 23, 1945
Shoot, birthdays, they ain’t no big deal. Ya know why? Well, let me tell you just what I think about birthdays―they’s just for rich kids. Yeah, that’s right. Heck, around my house it’s like they never happen. Oh sure, Momma’ll smile, give me a hug, and say, “I hope you have a wonderful birthday, Richard,” but that’s about it; and outside of an extra trip to the picture show or something real little, I don’t get nothing.
You know, it seems like turning twelve oughta count for something, but no, not on your cotton-picking life. Yeah, I know it has to do with money—ha!—or no money might be a better way to put it. Anything around my house that costs money better be something to eat or wear because the Mason family ain’t gonna waste a nickel on stuff like a birthday.
Well, I guess you can tell I’m kinda all bent outta shape, and I’m sitting around feeling sorry for myself. You guessed it―not even a cheap card or a ticket to the picture show this year. Heck, this birthday just about hit the bottom of the barrel. But, hey, it’s durn sure a lot better than my birthday was last year. Shoot, this year we’ve done whipped them sorry Germans, and just a couple of weeks back the Japs surrendered after we hit ’em with them atom bombs. Heck, me and Daddy almost had our ears in the radio listening to that famous newscaster Walter Winchell tell about the surrender. Shoot, he talks so fast I can hardly understand him. Every broadcast he starts off with:
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea. Let’s go to press…”
Well, ’course, that sounds real good and important like he’s talking to almost everybody in the whole entire world, so we really listen up. Gosh, when he said, “Japs sign unconditional surrender papers,” Daddy jumped outta that chair hollering for Momma to come in from the kitchen, and I was yelling like some wild Indian. Wow, that was something else. So I guess I really should just be sitting up here in the hayloft thinking about how glad I am that the War’s over. Maybe, but, well, oh, you know, I do care about the War being over ’cause them sorry Germans wounded my Uncle Spencer in the knee and nearly shot down my Uncle J. R when he was bombing ’em. But heck, it’s still my birthday, so why can’t I be glad about the War being over and still be all wrinkled up about not getting nothing for my birthday?
Well, at least I’ve got some good friends and a real good dog. My dog goes by the name of Sniffer, ’cause that old skinny, brown hound just sniffs and sniffs and howls to beat sixty all the time, but, shoot, he never trees nothing. He’s just a real good friend, and when you’ve got a dog you can talk to and he understands you, that counts for a lot. Huh, don’t think I can talk to Sniffer? Shoot, all I gotta say is “Swamp!” and that danged hound starts howling like crazy. He’s ready to go hunting. How about that?
’Course, I’ve got a whole lot of friends and one real good one. His name is John Clayton Reed, and he’s a bunch shorter than I am, but he’s weighs about fifteen pounds more’n me. Well, I’m kinda tall for twelve. Yeah, and I look a lot like my skinny momma. There ain’t an ounce of fat on either one of us, and, heck, there ain’t that much muscle. Momma keeps telling me I’m gonna fill out, but every year she marks my height on the kitchen wall and then weighs me. Shoot, I’m always taller, but heck, I’m usually not more’n a couple of pounds heavier. Well, I guess it’s that danged paper route that keeps me thin, ’cause every morning I run about five miles delivering them sorry papers―wait a minute―I’m lyin’ like a sorry yard dog. I don’t run no five miles a day. Heck, I might trot for a while, but usually I just plod along, chunking papers at front porches.
I work for old Doc Rollinson down at the newsstand, who got his legs all banged up out in the oil fields, and now he hasta use a wheelchair to get around. Doc’s always yelling at me for being late, but, shoot, why be on time when you got a danged paper route that don’t pay hardly nothing? Old Doc is really something else when he wheels around in that wheelchair with a cigarette holder clamped between his teeth, yelling at me for being late. Doc thinks that cigarette holder makes him look kinda like President Roosevelt, but he’s the only one who thinks that. Heck, Doc may be grumpy, but he’s still one of my best friends.
But you know, there’s something ’bout birthdays that are kinda different even if you don’t get nothing. Today, after I got home from school, I went out to our barn and climbed up in the loft where I wouldn’t be bothered. Yeah, I just wanted to pout all by myself, but then I started thinking. Heck, the first thing I thought about was that I’ll never be eleven again. Well, that ain’t no big a deal is it? Naw, but as I leaned back on a pile of hay and thought about all the stuff that happened while I was eleven it kinda made me smile, and then I got a little sad.
Heck, there was some real funny stuff that went on around the little old town of Norphlet where I live. You know Norphlet don’t ya? Yeah, it’s just six hundred people still hanging on trying not to get sucked up by the big county-seat town, El Dorado. Well, it was a bunch bigger back in Arkansas’s oil boom in the 1920s, but the oil boom ended and folks just packed up and left. The little old town looks like a ghost town now, but it’s big enough for me and my friends.
’Course, not everything that happened to me last year was just things you’d laugh at. Heck, there was some upsetting things and some stuff that just scared the beejesus outta me. Well, most of the exciting stuff happened after last Christmas, and as the months passed things just got all wound up. Heck, there was times I thought me and John Clayton was goners for sure. Wow, some of them things were so wild you’d never believe them in a million, zillion years. Huh? You wanna hear about ’em―every little thing? Well, okay, now listen up, ’cause some stuff that happened might sound kinda made up, but it ain’t. Promise, cross my heart.
Some literary agents will tell you that the first five sentences make or break your novels chances of being considered by an agent or publisher. Surely not! I don’t believe that for one minute, but having a good first chapter may be critical. With the amount of material that is flooding the publishing market today, many agents and publishers don’t get past the first chapter of a novel. What should that first chapter do? It should do two things–introduce the story and hook the reader. The later part of this post is the first chapter of the sequel to The Red Scarf. Take a quick read and let me know what you think.
Lyin’ Like A SORRY YARD Dog
By
Richard Mason
Chapter One
My Twelfth Birthday
September 23, 1945
Shoot, birthdays, they ain’t no big deal. Ya know why? Well, let me tell you just what I think about birthdays―they’s just for rich kids. Yeah, that’s right. Heck, around my house it’s like they never happen. Oh sure, Momma’ll smile, give me a hug, and say, “I hope you have a wonderful birthday, Richard,” but that’s about it; and outside of an extra trip to the picture show or something real little, I don’t get nothing.
You know, it seems like turning twelve oughta count for something, but no, not on your cotton-picking life. Yeah, I know it has to do with money—ha!—or no money might be a better way to put it. Anything around my house that costs money better be something to eat or wear because the Mason family ain’t gonna waste a nickel on stuff like a birthday.
Well, I guess you can tell I’m kinda all bent outta shape, and I’m sitting around feeling sorry for myself. You guessed it―not even a cheap card or a ticket to the picture show this year. Heck, this birthday just about hit the bottom of the barrel. But, hey, it’s durn sure a lot better than my birthday was last year. Shoot, this year we’ve done whipped them sorry Germans, and just a couple of weeks back the Japs surrendered after we hit ’em with them atom bombs. Heck, me and Daddy almost had our ears in the radio listening to that famous newscaster Walter Winchell tell about the surrender. Shoot, he talks so fast I can hardly understand him. Every broadcast he starts off with:
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea. Let’s go to press…”
Well, ’course, that sounds real good and important like he’s talking to almost everybody in the whole entire world, so we really listen up. Gosh, when he said, “Japs sign unconditional surrender papers,” Daddy jumped outta that chair hollering for Momma to come in from the kitchen, and I was yelling like some wild Indian. Wow, that was something else. So I guess I really should just be sitting up here in the hayloft thinking about how glad I am that the War’s over. Maybe, but, well, oh, you know, I do care about the War being over ’cause them sorry Germans wounded my Uncle Spencer in the knee and nearly shot down my Uncle J. R when he was bombing ’em. But heck, it’s still my birthday, so why can’t I be glad about the War being over and still be all wrinkled up about not getting nothing for my birthday?
Well, at least I’ve got some good friends and a real good dog. My dog goes by the name of Sniffer, ’cause that old skinny, brown hound just sniffs and sniffs and howls to beat sixty all the time, but, shoot, he never trees nothing. He’s just a real good friend, and when you’ve got a dog you can talk to and he understands you, that counts for a lot. Huh, don’t think I can talk to Sniffer? Shoot, all I gotta say is “Swamp!” and that danged hound starts howling like crazy. He’s ready to go hunting. How about that?
’Course, I’ve got a whole lot of friends and one real good one. His name is John Clayton Reed, and he’s a bunch shorter than I am, but he’s weighs about fifteen pounds more’n me. Well, I’m kinda tall for twelve. Yeah, and I look a lot like my skinny momma. There ain’t an ounce of fat on either one of us, and, heck, there ain’t that much muscle. Momma keeps telling me I’m gonna fill out, but every year she marks my height on the kitchen wall and then weighs me. Shoot, I’m always taller, but heck, I’m usually not more’n a couple of pounds heavier. Well, I guess it’s that danged paper route that keeps me thin, ’cause every morning I run about five miles delivering them sorry papers―wait a minute―I’m lyin’ like a sorry yard dog. I don’t run no five miles a day. Heck, I might trot for a while, but usually I just plod along, chunking papers at front porches.
I work for old Doc Rollinson down at the newsstand, who got his legs all banged up out in the oil fields, and now he hasta use a wheelchair to get around. Doc’s always yelling at me for being late, but, shoot, why be on time when you got a danged paper route that don’t pay hardly nothing? Old Doc is really something else when he wheels around in that wheelchair with a cigarette holder clamped between his teeth, yelling at me for being late. Doc thinks that cigarette holder makes him look kinda like President Roosevelt, but he’s the only one who thinks that. Heck, Doc may be grumpy, but he’s still one of my best friends.
But you know, there’s something ’bout birthdays that are kinda different even if you don’t get nothing. Today, after I got home from school, I went out to our barn and climbed up in the loft where I wouldn’t be bothered. Yeah, I just wanted to pout all by myself, but then I started thinking. Heck, the first thing I thought about was that I’ll never be eleven again. Well, that ain’t no big a deal is it? Naw, but as I leaned back on a pile of hay and thought about all the stuff that happened while I was eleven it kinda made me smile, and then I got a little sad.
Heck, there was some real funny stuff that went on around the little old town of Norphlet where I live. You know Norphlet don’t ya? Yeah, it’s just six hundred people still hanging on trying not to get sucked up by the big county-seat town, El Dorado. Well, it was a bunch bigger back in Arkansas’s oil boom in the 1920s, but the oil boom ended and folks just packed up and left. The little old town looks like a ghost town now, but it’s big enough for me and my friends.
’Course, not everything that happened to me last year was just things you’d laugh at. Heck, there was some upsetting things and some stuff that just scared the beejesus outta me. Well, most of the exciting stuff happened after last Christmas, and as the months passed things just got all wound up. Heck, there was times I thought me and John Clayton was goners for sure. Wow, some of them things were so wild you’d never believe them in a million, zillion years. Huh? You wanna hear about ’em―every little thing? Well, okay, now listen up, ’cause some stuff that happened might sound kinda made up, but it ain’t. Promise, cross my heart.
A Great Story, July 26, 2010
0 Comments on America’s new Mark Twain as of 1/1/1900
you sound just like a 12-year-old boy, one who never had a dull day. Growing up in the South sure beats the Midwest.