The small black cell phone is his pocket began to vibrate as he drove through his old hometown. Whenever he traveled back from his cross country project, he passed by his childhood home. Twelve hours in the car had worn him and he almost threw the phone out the window. "Delia is at the football game at your old school, want to get her on your way home and say hey to your old girlfriends." The text was too ridiculous to elicit laughter or return sarcasm. He pulled into the Kmart parking lot across from West Messenger High School. He had parked there as a high school student to avoid the small town combustion that would happen at sports events in Messenger. A brisk cool breeze blew as he walked across the highway. The memory came over him a wave. Cold November air chilled the warm sweat streaking his face. Mud caked against his dry skin. Blood trickled from a wound below his right bicep and collected inside his elbow. He looked up, slowly at the scoreboard and saw zeroes. It was over. The roar of three thousand small town high school football fans were muffled by the deafening stark reality that he would never do this again. He went through the motions of shaking hands with his celebrating opponents. Briskly, he walked off the field, and headed up the field house corridor. A football player, no longer. Delia interrupted the nostalgia, thankfully, he thought, by texting him. "You here :)." He answers, "Yes, sweetie, meet me next to the fieldhouse." He looked at the scoreboard and saw that his daughter high school, Kessington, visitors to the West Message Colts, were being blown out, 27-7. He laughed. During his time, his team was on the wrong end of such a score. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns, seeing an familiar face and hearing a familiar voice, "Thomas Beckett, I never thought I would see you here." He was scared and pleased at the same time. The girl he'd walked off the field to, over twnety years earlier, stood before him. "I heard you were married again and living close by," she kept talking. He decided to humor her, "Yeah, Gwen, it's part of my mid life crisis therapy. My shrink says I should relive all of my traumatic moments," he doubted she caught the sarcasm. "You have barely aged, Tom. You hang around for long and every one of your middle aged West Message friends will hate you," she flirted. He didn't buy what she was selling. "Have you seen a little blonde 15 year old girl with face paint and a cell phone surgically implanted in her hand," he diverted her attention. "Tom, I have one of those to. Well, she's 16. When did you get remarried?" she asked. She saw him look down, as if, she had kept up with his life intrusively. She had. "I read it on the internet, Tom Beckett. You're sort of famous." He smiled and said "Two years ago. My wife's name is Suzann. Delia is the teenager I'm looking for. Gwen Oliphant, high school girl friend and cheerleader to Tom Beckett's high school football player, wanted to talk more. She found herself transplanted to a happier time. The football field took her back. Before she could keep the conversation going, Delia showed. "Hey. Sorry, bathroom was like completely insane. So crazy. I am so over this place. I love my school so much better." Tom smiled. He was happy to see his daughter and to escape the awkward encounter. He hugged Delia, said goodbye, and called the only woman he wanted to flirt with.
"Tell me your secrets." Four words that they would regret. The baggage they brought into their relationship would fill out the cargo hull of a 747. Multiple marriages, financial failures, broken hearts, three children born to other people, hard partying histories, and fragile psyches only salvaged by therapy and religion. Yet, they spilled their guts to each other. She told him the worst thing she ever did. Then he shared his weakest moment. "In my wallet were three one dollar bills. Four strokes of a computer keyboard showed my checking account balance of three hundred and twenty three dollars. In my sweaty left hand was a check for seven hundred thousand dollars. His heart raced. His chest tightened. A middle class kid from moderate means; he now found himself monied. In my second year of brokering, I was everything I never thought I would be; corrupt. I traded shares of a company that didn't exist and, for a time, gotten away with the con. On the outside I looked accomplished. Inside, I was rotten. I quit the next day, anonymously turned in my fellow brokers and made a 700 thousand donation to a Children's Hospital. I'm sorry, Su. I'm very sorry. He looked at her spectacular blue eyes, expecting doom. Instead, she smiled. "You've never told anyone that, have you?" she asked. "No." She quickly responded, "Don't ever tell anyone else. They wouldn't understand like me. Thank you for being honest. That's the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me." Thank God I'm going to be with this woman forever he thought, then he kissed her with everthing he had.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Working Title 2
He grimaces as water runs over his purpled knuckles. Bloodshot eyes glimpse shamefully at his reflection. Images from the previous hours flash. Several whiskeys led to a violent fight. He walks to the refrigerator and takes a frozen bag of peas to ice his hand. He finds his cell phone on the counter and plays a voicemail with the speaker on. An angry female voice bellows "Lose my number. You're an embarrassment. Your drinking has hurt me and my friends for the last time!" The pain in his injured fingers increases. He opens the fridge and takes out a beer. He reaches slowly back to the kitchen counter to get the cell phone. He stumbles toward the bedroom to find the phone charger when the phone begins playing Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit. He means to hit ignore but answers the incoming call. His friend can see his grimace and sigh through the phone. "Hey you," he answers cautiously and slowly. "Uh, yeah. It's me. Glad I called. You sound lovely." His friend says disapprovingly. "Dude, what's going on? No phone calls in five days, you cancel dinner with my family, and you sound like you drank a lake. None of this is good. Start talking," she inquires sharply. She knows him too well. He tries to stall. Then he even tries to lie. He's poor at both. After a couple of minutes, he realizes how dark of a place he's in and comes clean. "This contradictory life is wearing me out, Zo. I think I pretty much ran off the bad part last night. Now I need to concentrate on the good part. I need to skip church this morning, though. There's physical healing to do." Zoe, knows bull when she hears it, but also wants to be a good friend. "Ok, you. You get the benefit of the doubt with me and the family. I'm going to call you tonight. Are you ok, as in, are you physically ok?" He knows to be honest. "Zo, I have a hurt hand, some busted up pride, and some beer to throw out. By the time you call, I'll have most of my head out of my rear end. I promise." He believes what he is saying. They say goodbye.
He walks over to his computer and checks his iblackbook. He reads through the messages, See the lost friends from the night before and starts deleting contacts. He comes across a hello line from someone he doesn't know but is ifriends with Zoe, and several of her high school friends. He answers back hello. Then turns off the computer and begins pouring out his beer. The cell phone buzzes again and he picks up without looking. "So, when did you and Suzann start talking?" a mutual friend to he and Zoe, Nancy asks. "I don;t know a Suzann. Honestly Nance, do you live online? I checked iblack for like a minute. Can I go back to my hangover and shame?" he shoots back rudely. "Oh poo. You and her would be perfect. I was just trying to entertain myself through you on a Sunday morning. What were you doing last night? It must have been crazy, from the action I see on your iblack.", Nancy gossips. "You don't want to know. Wait, you probably would want to know but let's just say I screwed up something I should have screwed up months ago. It's kind of sparked a resugence in goodness for me." Nancy laughs and offers information about Suzann. He doesn't listen and quickly hangs up. Nancy texts Suzann's number.
He spend the afternoon cleaning, working out, writing and reading. He wants to impress Zoe with his productive day and new goal oriented social life. He tries to call her through his text messages. he accidently calls the number Nancy had sent him. A sweet sounding voice answers. "Hello." He ealizes his mistake but something prevents his hand of flipping the phone off. "Hi", he says, "Is this Suzann?" After a short pause, Suzann, who had spent the afternoonwith her two daughters, and gossiping about her new iblackbook friend, answers "yes it is. You must be Tom. I've heard a lot about you." He hears children on the background, having one of his own, he knows the lack attention she can give to phone call from a random guy. "You sound busy. Um, would you like for me to call another time?" he sympathizes. She says encouragingly, "You called at the perfect time. The kids are leaving with their grandmother for dinner. I have the night to myself. I have plenty of time to talk." The conversation flows. Tom usually hates the phone, but two hours pass and he feels peaceful and happy. They agree to lunch in two days. Funny text messages follow. She calls him on her way to work the next morning. He calls her during lunch. Monday night produces another two hour phone call. It's as if they've known each other for years. Waht they have in common is stunning. Both of them are divorced. She has two daughters. He has one. Their mutual friends include Zoe and Nancy. Word makes it to both about the budding friendship between the single people. What happens on Tuesday, blows them both away.
Two people with spare time in the middle of the day. He talks to himself awkwardly before the meeting. It's just lunch, is the lie Tom tells himself. Salad, conversation; maybe he'll let her window shop my friendship store. He arrives at the restaurant early; nervous. She walks through the door. Suddenly, it wasn't lunch. She is beautiful. The kind of natural pretty that glows. Her long blonde hair falls over a stunning face full of sun and warmth. Then she smiles and he's sold. The lips moved around the teeth and revealed a spectacular woman. Their banter is effortless. Tom has no idea what she thinks of him, but at that moment, he fell in love.
He walks over to his computer and checks his iblackbook. He reads through the messages, See the lost friends from the night before and starts deleting contacts. He comes across a hello line from someone he doesn't know but is ifriends with Zoe, and several of her high school friends. He answers back hello. Then turns off the computer and begins pouring out his beer. The cell phone buzzes again and he picks up without looking. "So, when did you and Suzann start talking?" a mutual friend to he and Zoe, Nancy asks. "I don;t know a Suzann. Honestly Nance, do you live online? I checked iblack for like a minute. Can I go back to my hangover and shame?" he shoots back rudely. "Oh poo. You and her would be perfect. I was just trying to entertain myself through you on a Sunday morning. What were you doing last night? It must have been crazy, from the action I see on your iblack.", Nancy gossips. "You don't want to know. Wait, you probably would want to know but let's just say I screwed up something I should have screwed up months ago. It's kind of sparked a resugence in goodness for me." Nancy laughs and offers information about Suzann. He doesn't listen and quickly hangs up. Nancy texts Suzann's number.
He spend the afternoon cleaning, working out, writing and reading. He wants to impress Zoe with his productive day and new goal oriented social life. He tries to call her through his text messages. he accidently calls the number Nancy had sent him. A sweet sounding voice answers. "Hello." He ealizes his mistake but something prevents his hand of flipping the phone off. "Hi", he says, "Is this Suzann?" After a short pause, Suzann, who had spent the afternoonwith her two daughters, and gossiping about her new iblackbook friend, answers "yes it is. You must be Tom. I've heard a lot about you." He hears children on the background, having one of his own, he knows the lack attention she can give to phone call from a random guy. "You sound busy. Um, would you like for me to call another time?" he sympathizes. She says encouragingly, "You called at the perfect time. The kids are leaving with their grandmother for dinner. I have the night to myself. I have plenty of time to talk." The conversation flows. Tom usually hates the phone, but two hours pass and he feels peaceful and happy. They agree to lunch in two days. Funny text messages follow. She calls him on her way to work the next morning. He calls her during lunch. Monday night produces another two hour phone call. It's as if they've known each other for years. Waht they have in common is stunning. Both of them are divorced. She has two daughters. He has one. Their mutual friends include Zoe and Nancy. Word makes it to both about the budding friendship between the single people. What happens on Tuesday, blows them both away.
Two people with spare time in the middle of the day. He talks to himself awkwardly before the meeting. It's just lunch, is the lie Tom tells himself. Salad, conversation; maybe he'll let her window shop my friendship store. He arrives at the restaurant early; nervous. She walks through the door. Suddenly, it wasn't lunch. She is beautiful. The kind of natural pretty that glows. Her long blonde hair falls over a stunning face full of sun and warmth. Then she smiles and he's sold. The lips moved around the teeth and revealed a spectacular woman. Their banter is effortless. Tom has no idea what she thinks of him, but at that moment, he fell in love.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Working Title
Starting today, September 15, 2010, I am posting a short story I have been writing. For now it's short. For now, it's fictional. I decided to make this separate blog, away from http://myblogcanbeatupyourblog.blogspot.com/ , to feature my fictional compositions. I hope you like my stuff. Feel free to comment, criticize, or ridicule. Here's the first "page or so":
Unusually cold in the house, he felt uncomfortable as he walked into the living room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and felt the bumps on his arm rise. She appeared at the top, more beautiful than he had ever seen. As she began to descend, the black heels she would probably never wear again, stumbled on each stair edge. Her reddish streaked, blonde hair caresses her tan shoulders as she carefully steps. He reached out to hug and kiss her. "Don't touch me, ok," she barked. "My makeup is like, you know, like perfect right now. How's my hair? It sucks, or not, or whatever?" he shrugs at his teenaged daughter's incouciance for affection at this tender moment; for him. "You look stunning, sweetheart. Absolutely stunning in every way", he honestly replies. His wife Suzann, clicks a digital camera several times. His daughter isn't impressed. "Really, mom? There's plenty of time for that, ok." The two of them bicker and walk together over the the kitchen foyer. A tear forms in the side of each of his eyes. A month ago, he turned 40 years old. Now, his 14 year old daughter, Delia is headed to her first school dance. His family is happy and together. That, "how did I get here?" feeling overwhelms him. The how he got here is a hard story to believe. He begins to think about himself at Delia's age. He hopes she doesn't have the same story.
Small and immature for his age, he had no place on a football field. He barely weighed 130 pounds. He had to argue to pass for 5'3". The haranguing started early in practice. "Get up, get your little girly butt back to the huddle or get the hell off my field. Do you understand me, peanut?" Coach Mackey screamed. He wanted to tell his about the bruises on his legs, the pain in his back, and the lightheadedness probably due to concussion but instead he limped back to the offensive huddle. He listens to the play call, he breaks the huddle with a weak clap, and puts his right hand in the dirt to assume a three point stance. On the word "hut" he springs forward into a boy seven inches taller and 60 pounds heavier, taking a forearm in the chin. His opponent beats him and makes a tackle of his teammate. Not good. Coach Mackey is too mad to yell. The other coach, a more cerebral, almost professorial type, approaches. Coach Kenney pulls him away from the other players and takes the helmet off the smallish head. A concerned but disappointed Coach puts his arms across his tiny running back's shoulders. "Listen, kiddo, I know you love this sport. So do I. My love for this thing is making me tell you to give it up. You don't have what it takes. This is a big boy game. If you're lucky, you'll top out at five seven, maybe 150 pounds. I read your language arts homework today in class. You're a writer. Do that. Cause, son, you ain't a football player." Dejected, shocked, hurt, he looks at his Coach and says, without thinking, "sir, I'm both. Are you cutting me?" the man answers "No, son. I can't afford to cut you. This is 9th grade football and you actually give a crap. I just wish you'd grow a body to match your stupid heart." For months, that was the nicest thing anyone said to him.
"Hey baby, you ok." Suzann asks. Realizing minutes had gone by, he coyly responds "yeah Delia just brought back some memories. I guess I need to go pick up that boy, huh?" Suzann corrects him, "Honey, his name is Kyle and he's taking your daughter to homecoming. Deal with that, please. After you drop them off get your gym workout in, mom is having our other two daughters spend the night and I want to watch a weepy girl movie on the DVR." He laughs and joins the rest of the family outside for pictures.
The only think he likes about the treadmill is it's solitude. As he starts the run, he puts his ipod ear phones in and goes into another dimension. A song comes on and it starts his memory again....The stench of cigarette smoke hits him sharply as he opens the heavy, graffitied door of the pub. The tattooed, unwashed doorman doesn't bother asking for his ID. He walks briskly past the restaurant tables and bar, saying hello to a few people, then muscling his way through the thick door to the basement. He could feel the vibrations of the music. As he opened the door to the stage, the thunderous chords of Communication Breakdown jars his senses. He grins briefly. The only escape from his catastrophic day is his friend's cover band rehearsing,; bravely taking on Led Zepplin. The song ends and the lead singer, a curly haired brunette, puts down her guitar and tells her bandmates to take a break. She smiles and see him through the haze. They hug and sit down at the bar. "You guys sound great Marly. Glad I stopped by", he tells her. "Thanks. I'm glad you came. Thanks for listening to me bitch last night. I kind of dumped on you," she orders two beers and starts talking about her situation with her girlfriend. Several minutes go by and she finally notices that he's barely cracked a smile or a wise crack. "Hey you, what's going on. I'm being such a needy jerk. Looks like you need some rocker therapy," she offers. He stammers then comes out with it, "eh I'm single again. When I'm without my daughter it's just me, music, and your annoying phone calls." he tries to joke. He and Marley had been friends for a couple of years. They shared their love of rock music, tattoos, and straight forward speech. She didn't miss a beat in telling him what he needed, "dude, stop looking for it. You're only two years years removed from a horrific divorce. You have the same taste in chicks, I do. Which is bad. Whether she's out there is pointless. Be happy with yourself. You know, I have a friend," He counters "shut up and get away from me. I'd rather you play Journey covers than try to set me up. She'd end up being gay or crazy or both." She laughs hard, realizing she needs to get back to rehearsal, she reaches into her torn jeans and takes out her cell phone. She thumbs through her contacts, and finds the number. She texts the number to his phone, leans over, hugs him, and says "i have to go rock. You coming to the show next week?" He shoots back "yeah, I'll try to be there.". Marley turns back towards him, and says "killer, we both need new ink, we'll go get some afterwards." Not knowing whether to be scared or excited, he takes a drink of his beer and escapes into her band's riffs.
Unusually cold in the house, he felt uncomfortable as he walked into the living room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and felt the bumps on his arm rise. She appeared at the top, more beautiful than he had ever seen. As she began to descend, the black heels she would probably never wear again, stumbled on each stair edge. Her reddish streaked, blonde hair caresses her tan shoulders as she carefully steps. He reached out to hug and kiss her. "Don't touch me, ok," she barked. "My makeup is like, you know, like perfect right now. How's my hair? It sucks, or not, or whatever?" he shrugs at his teenaged daughter's incouciance for affection at this tender moment; for him. "You look stunning, sweetheart. Absolutely stunning in every way", he honestly replies. His wife Suzann, clicks a digital camera several times. His daughter isn't impressed. "Really, mom? There's plenty of time for that, ok." The two of them bicker and walk together over the the kitchen foyer. A tear forms in the side of each of his eyes. A month ago, he turned 40 years old. Now, his 14 year old daughter, Delia is headed to her first school dance. His family is happy and together. That, "how did I get here?" feeling overwhelms him. The how he got here is a hard story to believe. He begins to think about himself at Delia's age. He hopes she doesn't have the same story.
Small and immature for his age, he had no place on a football field. He barely weighed 130 pounds. He had to argue to pass for 5'3". The haranguing started early in practice. "Get up, get your little girly butt back to the huddle or get the hell off my field. Do you understand me, peanut?" Coach Mackey screamed. He wanted to tell his about the bruises on his legs, the pain in his back, and the lightheadedness probably due to concussion but instead he limped back to the offensive huddle. He listens to the play call, he breaks the huddle with a weak clap, and puts his right hand in the dirt to assume a three point stance. On the word "hut" he springs forward into a boy seven inches taller and 60 pounds heavier, taking a forearm in the chin. His opponent beats him and makes a tackle of his teammate. Not good. Coach Mackey is too mad to yell. The other coach, a more cerebral, almost professorial type, approaches. Coach Kenney pulls him away from the other players and takes the helmet off the smallish head. A concerned but disappointed Coach puts his arms across his tiny running back's shoulders. "Listen, kiddo, I know you love this sport. So do I. My love for this thing is making me tell you to give it up. You don't have what it takes. This is a big boy game. If you're lucky, you'll top out at five seven, maybe 150 pounds. I read your language arts homework today in class. You're a writer. Do that. Cause, son, you ain't a football player." Dejected, shocked, hurt, he looks at his Coach and says, without thinking, "sir, I'm both. Are you cutting me?" the man answers "No, son. I can't afford to cut you. This is 9th grade football and you actually give a crap. I just wish you'd grow a body to match your stupid heart." For months, that was the nicest thing anyone said to him.
"Hey baby, you ok." Suzann asks. Realizing minutes had gone by, he coyly responds "yeah Delia just brought back some memories. I guess I need to go pick up that boy, huh?" Suzann corrects him, "Honey, his name is Kyle and he's taking your daughter to homecoming. Deal with that, please. After you drop them off get your gym workout in, mom is having our other two daughters spend the night and I want to watch a weepy girl movie on the DVR." He laughs and joins the rest of the family outside for pictures.
The only think he likes about the treadmill is it's solitude. As he starts the run, he puts his ipod ear phones in and goes into another dimension. A song comes on and it starts his memory again....The stench of cigarette smoke hits him sharply as he opens the heavy, graffitied door of the pub. The tattooed, unwashed doorman doesn't bother asking for his ID. He walks briskly past the restaurant tables and bar, saying hello to a few people, then muscling his way through the thick door to the basement. He could feel the vibrations of the music. As he opened the door to the stage, the thunderous chords of Communication Breakdown jars his senses. He grins briefly. The only escape from his catastrophic day is his friend's cover band rehearsing,; bravely taking on Led Zepplin. The song ends and the lead singer, a curly haired brunette, puts down her guitar and tells her bandmates to take a break. She smiles and see him through the haze. They hug and sit down at the bar. "You guys sound great Marly. Glad I stopped by", he tells her. "Thanks. I'm glad you came. Thanks for listening to me bitch last night. I kind of dumped on you," she orders two beers and starts talking about her situation with her girlfriend. Several minutes go by and she finally notices that he's barely cracked a smile or a wise crack. "Hey you, what's going on. I'm being such a needy jerk. Looks like you need some rocker therapy," she offers. He stammers then comes out with it, "eh I'm single again. When I'm without my daughter it's just me, music, and your annoying phone calls." he tries to joke. He and Marley had been friends for a couple of years. They shared their love of rock music, tattoos, and straight forward speech. She didn't miss a beat in telling him what he needed, "dude, stop looking for it. You're only two years years removed from a horrific divorce. You have the same taste in chicks, I do. Which is bad. Whether she's out there is pointless. Be happy with yourself. You know, I have a friend," He counters "shut up and get away from me. I'd rather you play Journey covers than try to set me up. She'd end up being gay or crazy or both." She laughs hard, realizing she needs to get back to rehearsal, she reaches into her torn jeans and takes out her cell phone. She thumbs through her contacts, and finds the number. She texts the number to his phone, leans over, hugs him, and says "i have to go rock. You coming to the show next week?" He shoots back "yeah, I'll try to be there.". Marley turns back towards him, and says "killer, we both need new ink, we'll go get some afterwards." Not knowing whether to be scared or excited, he takes a drink of his beer and escapes into her band's riffs.
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