The Book: Chapters One and Two

Ladies and Gentlemen, my esteemed colleagues and friends, leaders, teachers, bloggers and Johnny Depp,

What I am about to do is the equivalent of standing before you in a monokini and asking you to circle all of my undesirable and flabby parts with a black Sharpie. I'm pretty sure I might look like Condoleeza Rice once you were done. Because I would be black. Incredibly intelligent and black.

As you may know, I've been working on a novel. I've described my all nighters and hallucinations and imaginary conversations with Cybill Shepherd because of the delirium that I've suffered while writing so much, but now I would like to share part of it with you.

Gasp! I'm not known to share my writing with anyone. Before I started blogging, no one read what I wrote. No one. But, thankfully, blogging has helped me to come out of my heavy tortoise shell and be somewhat comfortable in sharing my words with others.

Thank you, blog.

So, here it is. Chapter One. And Chapter Two.

I am asking something of my readers. I hate being a pain in the ass and asking anything from you, but I really, like really really need to know what you think. If you hate it, just comment that you hate it as "Anonymous." If you love it, then use your real name so I will love you more than I probably already do.

I need your feedback. Would you actually read this? Does it reel you in? Would it be a major motion picture or some cheesy ass Lifetime movie with a title that includes semicolons? You know. "Born to Kill: The Aubrey Hollinsworth-Dupree Story." Or "Life with Rabies: The Cujo Story." Or "I Can't Button My Shirt: The Drunk Guy with No Thumbs Story."

I don't want it to be a Lifetime movie. I love Nancy McKeon and Joan Van Ark, but I can't picture them in this story. Can you? If you can, I might as well put it in the firepit now.

Do me a solid, my friends. Critique my work. I'm finally, after 23 years, comfortable enough to ask this of someone.

It's a long one. Grab a Diet Coke and some Nutella, put the kids in the dog pen, and enjoy.

Please keep in mind that this has yet to be edited, and since I am a comma whore, I'm pretty sure that I've used them in abundance. I need my high school English teacher to proofread this, but I'm pretty sure she still hates me.

Oh, and of course when I copy and pasted this into Blogger, the formatting got completely screwed. There are double spaces and indentions and a whole lotta ugly weirdness going on.  Please overlook this if you can. I really do know how to make writing grammatically correct and aesthetically pleasing.

ONE

 

            The road takes its toll on the body and the mind after some time. The sea of gray works on tired eyes, merging the yellow lines with the white. Each corn field looks the same as the one before, stalks of the same height, the same color. A semi truck roars by and makes the body and the mind alert for a moment, the same way a cracked window of rushing air wakes the senses. 

            A minivan holds up traffic, the impatient father not realizing he has dropped below the speed limit as children yell and laugh from the back seat, throwing candy, ignoring their mother’s pleading requests to be quiet.

            Truck stop ahead. Boiled peanuts ahead. Detour ahead. Free Wi-Fi and HBO at the Holiday Inn on Exit 56.

            The back aches from sitting, the leg aches from pressing the pedal, the arms ache from holding the wheel at ten and two. The mind aches from the monotony of it all as the body, the mind, the car races away from something or to something, just the same.

 

            I had been driving for ten hours. Ten hours of yellow lines, white lines, corn fields, semi trucks, mini vans, truck stops, boiled peanuts, body aches, mind racing.  Ten hours of interstates and highways that I hadn’t seen in a decade.  

            I’d stopped twice; once at a truck stop in Texarkana, and once at a small general store just east of Memphis. I waited in line at the Tennessee store, staring at a photo above the cashier’s head.

            I didn’t know who the man in the photo was, holding a record breaking catfish, smiling down at me. It reminded me of the old black and white 1950’s photo in my grandmother’s kitchen. My grandfather posed next to a boat load of fish, cigarette hanging from the smile covering his face as my grandmother flipped pancakes in an iron skillet and said, “Best fishing in the country is right here in Tennessee.” I’m pretty sure the man in the photo at the general store would agree.

            As I waited on the elderly lady in front of me to find 14 pennies in her purse, I looked around the store. His photo on the television in the corner startled me. It was a relic rear projection, rabbit ears and all, and a blonde newscaster with gorgeous diamond earrings and beautiful plum lipstick appeared to tell my story. But the volume was so low that I couldn’t make out what she was saying.    

            The television flashed another photo, one of me in a stunning black gown at some random charity event, gorgeous diamond earrings of my own, and a phone number for the public to call if I was seen flashed across the screen. No one was going to see that girl on the television screen. My long blonde hair had been dyed a cheap reddish hue. It had been haphazardly cut, my blue eyes changed to green, and for extra measure, a pillow stuffed under my cheap green t-shirt to give the impression that I was due with child. The entire pillow thing seemed silly, yet genius at the same time.

            “Yes mam?” the cashier, a woman in her fifties with her own haphazard haircut, asked me between fierce smacks of gum.

            “I got 50 on pump number 3. I also need a pack of Marlboro Lights,” I blushed when I realized the lady was staring at the bump under my shirt.

            “Not good for the baby, dear,” she scowled at me.
            “They are for my husband,” I lied.

            “Ought not be smoking around an expecting woman, either,” she mumbled, reaching for the cigarettes on a shelf above her head. “Can I see some I.D.?”

            My heart fluttered. “I left it in the car. I’m exhausted. Please don’t make me walk all the way back out there.”

            She eyed me, my fake hair, my fake eyes, and my fake baby.

            “You’re telling me I don’t look 18?” I smiled. “I’m flattered, but I am 30.”

            “Birthday?” she asked, the gum snapping between her teeth.

            I blurted out a date, only three days before my actual birthday. I threw the cash at her and retrieved my nicotine.

            Once the Land Rover was out of the parking lot, I threw the pillow baby to the passenger seat and inhaled the smoke.  

 

            I knew my disappearance would make the local Houston news. I had no idea it would make national real-deal-all-the-way-in Tennessee news. This made me nervous.

            Someone from years ago was bound to see my photo on national news. Sure, in the news photo I was a decade older. My short naturally brown hair was replaced by long yellow locks. My breasts were larger, my waistline smaller, my arms toned, but it was still me. An old neighbor, old friend, ex-boyfriend and certainly my family could all still recognize me.  

           

            The time had come. I had to call my parents.

 

            It’s amazing how hard it is to find a pay phone now days. It wasn’t so hard to find one only ten years ago. I pulled over at nearly a dozen gas stations and truck stops only to find cement poles and square boxes where pay phones once lived, wires cut, receivers missing. My cell phone was in custody of the Houston Police Department so I continued to search for some way to contact my parents, my home.   

            I finally found a pay phone at a truck stop nearly 50 miles from the small general store.  The receiver was greasy and smelled of fried chicken, the #3 button missing, the dial tone fuzzy. I exhaled, inserted what seemed to be an ungodly amount of change, and I dialed the number that I had longed to dial for years.

            One ring. Two. Three. Finally, ring number four was interrupted by the sound of my mother’s sweet, slow, southern drawl.

            I lost my breath. I literally lost my breath at the sound of her voice. It was the same voice that comforted me when lightning struck and thunder roared, the same voice that scolded me when I drank red Kool Aid on the white carpet, the only voice that could correct me and comfort me simultaneously.

            “Mama,” I breathed helplessly into the dirty receiver.

            Out of habit, my eyes scanned my surroundings, making sure I wasn’t being watched, being heard. I kept my voice low, my hand covering the receiver and my mouth so no one could make out what I was saying. I pressed my body against the cold brick of the busy truck stop, and my eyes continued to search.

            “Mama?” I repeated, quietly, softly.

            “My God,” my mother’s voice cracked. “Elle?”

            “Yes, Mama.” I replied.
            “My God, Elle. Is that really you? Is it really you?” I could hear the hope and the happiness rise in her voice.
            “Mama, listen, I have to be quick. Are you listening?”

            “Yes, I’m listening. I’m listening!” she exclaimed.
            “Have you seen the news?” I asked as my eyes fixated on a burly truck driver pumping gas and whistling an Allman Brothers tune over the roaring of the diesel engine.  
            “No, baby, I haven’t. No, what is it?” my mother was on the border of hysteria. Her slow southern inflection was now fast and frantic.
            “If you see me on the news, don’t call anyone. Do you hear me? Do not call the police. I am fine. I am okay. Don’t contact anyone. Tell the family the same, ” I gave quick instructions, watching a pickup truck of young boys, the whistling truck driver, the lot lizard in hot pink spandex pants and a zebra print tube top casting flirty eyes on a truck driver entering the store. “Are you still on Pine Hills? You haven’t moved?”
            “Of course we are still here! We haven’t moved. What’s going on, Elle? Why are you on the news?” Mama panicked.
            “I’m fine, Mama. I will see you soon. Don’t call anyone. Kiss Vaiden for me. I will see you soon,” I hung up the phone. I raced back to the Land Rover, locked the doors, and I sped away.

 

            Mama knew I was okay. She would tell Daddy, Vaiden, Emma, Nathan. I would see them all soon. I felt relieved. I was going home. I was finally going home.

TWO

 

            Darkness had fallen when I crossed the river. When I left Texas so many hours before, I knew I was coming to Tennessee, coming home. I’d planned to drive straight to my childhood home, oak trees shading the yard, ivy climbing the north side of the house, ferns setting on the long front porch. I’d planned to speed up the steep driveway, run through the kitchen door, and scoop them all into my arms.  However, once I saw my photo on the news, I knew this would be too dangerous. Our neighbor, old lady Lancaster, could be on the phone with Houston right now, giving them information, giving them my parent’s address. Someone could be giving me away.

            After seeing the picture of the smiling fisherman outside of Memphis, the image in my grandmother’s kitchen had weighed heavily on my mind. That photo impelled me to stay here, on the Tennessee River, but I didn’t make the final decision until I had crossed the bridge and saw the sign.  

            The Land Rover kicked up gravel and dirt as I slowly navigated down the winding road. I had no idea where it ended, what was waiting at the end, but the “camper for rent” sign prompted me to turn. Who would think to look for Texas socialite, Claire Marsh, in a camper on the muddy banks of this river?

            I made my way over a hill, and the car lights shone on a couple of campers nestled between thick pine trees on the banks of the water. A mobile home sat at the end of the gravel cove with signs indicating that it was the office. The trailer’s porch light was lit, a TV flickered inside, and I got out of the car and stretched my legs.

            I left the baby pillow in the car. I didn’t know how long I would be staying here. I didn’t think I could pretend to be pregnant in this August heat, lugging around a feather pillow every day for an extended period of time.

            I walked onto the mobile home porch, tripped over a cooler, and rapped on the screen door. I heard a recliner slam shut inside and an older gentleman appeared in plaid pajama pants and a white t-shirt. His eyes squinted to see me through the door, under the bright porch light, moths swarming my head.

            I had rehearsed my story as I drove down the dusty gravel road. I’d been a professional liar for years. Stories came easy to me.

            “What can I do you for?” he opened the screen door, toothpick sticking out of his mouth. His thick gray hair was messy on his head.

            “Hey, there,” I smiled. “I saw a sign on the main road that you have a camper for rent.”

            “I sure do. You interested?” he eyed my shoddy haircut, my cheap clothes, and then the expensive Land Rover parked behind me. I knew it didn’t add up.

            “Yes, sir, I am. I just lost my house in a divorce. My husband didn’t leave me a thing but that car. I would’ve never married a lawyer for money if I knew I’d end up divorcing him,” I chuckled.

            “No, guess not. You from around here? Any lawyer I might know?” he chewed on his toothpick, eyes still squinting from the bright porch bulb.

            “No, sir, I’m from St. Louis. My grandfather used to spend his summers fishing close to here, though. I spent a lot of time as a child here with him. Maybe you knew him? Albert Hershey?” I replied. Albert Hershey wasn’t my grandfather’s name. However, my old school bus driver was named Albert, and I had eaten a Hershey bar earlier.   

            “Don’t ring a bell. He still come around here?” the old man questioned.

            “No, sir, he died a couple of years ago. Now that I’m divorced and going through so many emotions, I feel like I need to be someplace that reminds me of him. We were so close. I just need to be someplace where I had a lot of happy childhood memories with him. Oh, that sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” I shifted my weight and shook my head.

            “Why, no, that ain’t crazy. My wife been dead thirteen years now, but sometimes I still get out on my boat just to feel close to her. We spent a lot of time in that boat over the course of 38 years. I did a lot of fishing, she did a lot of complaining. I never knew how much I’d miss that complaining,” he grinned at me. “Let me get a flashlight, and I’ll show you the camper.”

            “Thanks,” I moved aside as he grabbed a light, put on his slippers, and then walked onto the porch.

            “How long you think you’ll be staying?” he asked as we walked past the dusty Land Rover, several campers, and I kicked pine cones out of the way.

            “I’m not quite sure. I just wanted to get away from St. Louis for a while, clear my head, do some thinking. I may stay a week or two; maybe a month if that’s okay?” I swatted at a mosquito.

            “That ain’t no problem. I’ve rented this camper out to an old fishing buddy of mine every summer for the last couple of years, but he had a stroke a few weeks ago. Got him up at the V.A. hospital in Nashville now. He won’t be staying here anymore this year,” he coughed as we reached the camper, and he unlocked the door.

            “How many campers do you have here?” I looked around the small, dark campground.

            “I only got three others besides this one. My brother and his wife stay in that one up closest to me. She sits outside eating and reading all day while he’s gone fishing, then she fries his catch when he gets back. She’s big as a barn, but she’s a sweet gal. She probably won’t bother you none,” he replied as we stepped into the small camper. He switched on a light and moths swarmed to it from the open screen door.

            “The other two campers are fishermen, too. One feller, Gus, lost his wife to the cancer a couple of months ago. I reckon he is here for kind of the same reasons you are. He says he likes being here and clearing his head. The other feller is named Monroe. He only comes down on weekends to get away from his old lady. I guess he come here to clear his head, too. River is a good place for that.”

            I looked around the small space. The camper was old as I was, but it was well kept and clean. There was a small kitchen sink, countertop, gas range and mini fridge.  An old brown microwave, the size of a small television, with a huge turn-knob dial, took up most of the counter space.

            “Now, there’s a double bed behind that curtain there,” he pointed behind me as I pulled the sheet back and saw the double bed covered in a yellow and brown corduroy quilt.

            “I just washed them covers a few days ago, too,” he added as if it was a special bonus.

            “Great,” I nodded.

            There was a small black and white hound’s tooth card table and two orange chairs sitting across from the kitchen area, and an AC unit was stuck in the window above the table. Beyond that was another yellow sheet.

            “Behind this curtain is a little cot, see, “he said as he pulled it back for me to look. “You also got you a toilet, sink and stand up shower back here. Everything works just right.”

            “It looks great,” I grinned at him. I meant it. It didn’t compare to the 12,000 square foot home I left in Texas, but somehow, it was refreshing.

            “I take rent by the week. It’s fifty, and that includes water and sewage, electricity. There’s a television hooked up back there by the double bed, and we get local channels.”  

            “Fifty sounds perfect. I sure do appreciate it,” I nodded at him as I looked around my new place.

            “There’s a great view, too. Wait until the sun comes up. The water is right here out your front door. Best view on the river,” he pointed out the door.  

            “I can’t wait to see it. I bet it’s beautiful, just like I remember with my Papa,” I gave an Oscar winning performance.

            “Well, I’m going to need to see some identification and go ahead and get your first week’s payment. We can go back up to my house and get all that squared away,” he headed out the door.

            “Well, there’s a little problem there,” I sighed.

            “Problem?” he turned to me as I made my way down the camper steps.

            “My purse was stolen this afternoon. They got my billfold, my cell phone, everything,” I groaned over the chirping of crickets, croaking of bullfrogs.

            “Pity,” he said.

            “I do have cash, though. Thankfully I kept some in my car. I can pay you the rent, but I sure don’t have any I.D. with me. I’m going to make some phone calls and get it all squared away tomorrow,” I batted sad eyes at him. I looked pitiable, divorced, mourning my dead grandfather, recently robbed and just wanting to clear my head and find myself in a camper on the banks of the Tennessee River.

            “Well,” he sighed. “I reckon that will be alright. You don’t seem like the type to cause no trouble.”

            “No, sir, scouts honor,” I held up my fingers and awkwardly, wrongly, did some kind of scout salute.

            “Let’s get back up to the house and get some information and that rent then,” he turned on the flashlight, and I followed him to his trailer.

            I gave him a fake name, the second alias I’d ever used, Charley Dahl, after Charlotte, my favorite childhood ragdoll. I handed him the rent and thanked him again. I grabbed the suitcases and pillow from the car, kicked a couple more pine cones in the dark, and I threw myself onto the 70s corduroy quilt and heaved a collective sigh of relief.

            I felt free. I finally felt free.   

 

I can't seem to get the Yeah Write #77 badge to post this week. I don't know if I'm a complete dumbass or what, but check out the Yeah Write Speakeasy here.