All this time to kill and I decided to do something constructive with it. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I am once again embarking on the writing of a novel. Yes, I have attempted this feat on a few previous occasions, with only a couple of short stories to show for it. But this time I can feel it in me bones. It's gonna be long enough to be considered a novel.
A strange novel, wanting in form, yet the vignettes seem to all mesh together and so it might actually turn into something original and hopefully enjoyable.
What I have written is a bit lengthy, so I've come to the logical decision not to attempt to post it all here. I may try to do it on the Bipolar Confessional blog. If I do, and it works, I will post a link to the page where it's at, and you can peruse it at your own pace.
Until then, I hope you enjoy these opening pages. It doesn't have a title just yet.
He didn't know what else to do. It seemed to be the only course of action. He was perfectly willing to do whatever he deemed necessary. His sweet-tooth was callin' the shots, though, so what HE deemed necessary was heavily influenced by the munchies.
So, this being the case, he hoisted himself from the couch and put his shirt back on. It was a cool shirt, at least he thought so. Swan Song label, man! Zeppelin, eh? Yeah, cool as fuck.
He grabbed his car keys after slipping into his worn-out flip flops. With no small degree of swagger he strolled out to the ratty 1990 Toyota Celica he called his own. The ignition fired up on the first try…the Celica may have looked like it barely survived a nuclear war, but it was reliable…damned reliable.
His destination was not far from home. Walking distance, actually. It probably would have turned out better for him had he just walked. Only two blocks to his favorite grocery store, which also doubled as a psychedelic utopian oasis when his head was in a good place.
Al & James Grocery. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. He knew that store like it was his own grub filled mansion. Every aisle was memorized. As you walk in the store, he would have told you, you’ll see the produce section. Lettuce, broccoli, cucumbers, a vegetarian’s dream. Fruits, too. Enough fruit to make a man sick of fruits in general.
“To your left”, he would continue, “is the soda pop aisle. I love this aisle. I drink it all, perty much, except for that nasty diet shit. Pepsi, Coke, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all the same to me. Motherfucking Sprite, that’s some refreshing swill. Hell, if I’m broke I’ll substitute one of the other “doctors”, the cheap-ass store brand, for the king of soft drinks, Dr. Pepper. Dr. Thunder, Dr. Shasta, Dr, This and Dr, That. None of ‘em tasting much like the Pepper. But hey, if you’ve only got 50 cents, well, they’ll do.”
Aisles, aisles, long aisles, crowded aisles. Aisles that smelled like spices. Aisles that smelled like coffee, a delicious, familiar flavor. Aisles, chilly from the frozen food showcases to either side. Aisles, clumsily stocked by the graveyard shift, already fucked up before the day’s half over.
Miles of aisles to choose from, but on this sunny Oklahoma afternoon the man in the patchouli-stinking Led Zeppelin shirt had only one aisle on his mind.
Ice cream, baby. “This is what it’s all about”, he says, talking to an investigative reporter sent by the “In Your Corner” team of do-gooders from the channel 4 news crew. ”This is the serious fuckin’ shit! You think I couldn’t eat me 3 or 4 gallons at a time? Just watch me. I do it up every which way but loose…I’m gonna get me a belly-full of Rocky-fucking Road. Make me a hot fudge sundae. That be a good idea.”
The reporter’s camera crew had shut down and moved on, but Terry, who was also the main anchorwoman at KFOR , hung around in an attempt to introduce herself to him on a less-professional level.
“That was a beautiful soliloquy you gave about those bomb pops. Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Sylvester Stallone in profile?”
“No”, he answered, a certain gleam in his eyes, “But it has often been remarked by those who know me that I bear an uncanny resemblance to Richard Gere”.
“So what’s your name?”
“Richard Gere.”
She giggled…”I would never have placed you…you look too much like Morgan Freeman; I could never have mistaken you for Gere.”
“Okay”, he conceded. “My name…no, my REAL name…uhh…that would be…”
“Yes…surely you’ve not forgotten it?”
“Timothy. That’s it…no, really. It’s Timmy Carver. You can call me Jim, if you want to. If I can call you Terry…”
Terry replied, “Oh, I would not have it any other way”.
“Has anyone ever told you, Terry, that your beauty shames the Venus de Milo? That your elfish eyes seem stolen from the Mona Lisa? That the very scent of you makes me swoon and stagger?”
“Yes”, Terry said. “I’ve heard all of that before… A couple of guys used that Mona Lisa line on me, one right after the other…but somehow it seems like when YOU say it…well that makes all the difference in the world. Now, Mr. Ice Cream Expert, what have you to say about the Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches?”
He smiled. “By God, you’ve made my mind up for me. What have I to say about ‘em? I say they are the shit. I say that they are on my top-20 list of favorite ice cream confections. Yes, ma’am, I’ve got a lot to say about them, but truth be told, I got Willie Nelson on the TV at home right now, and this grocery store visit has already lasted 3 times longer than I wanted it to. I’ve probably already missed ‘Whiskey River’…and that was the only reason I was even watching. So unless you’re wanting to come home with me, where we can enjoy what’s left of Willie’s show in private. Then move your bulk and girth., I really need to get these ice cream sandwiches paid for and skee-daddle before they melt on me. I hate that..”
“Oh, but yeah…I should have known you’d go for the sandwiches. And I would have thought that, had you found me half as attractive as I find you, you would have already asked me to go with you,” her lips moist and red, pouting… “…and I’d go. Yes, indeed I would take your grubby hand and go with you. Baby., you take me away to a world I never knew…what else can I say? I wanna go with you”.
She knew those were her own thoughts. But she hadn’t realized that she had actually spoken them out loud. She caught herself, but it was too late.
She looked away, and he watched her awkwardness. “If that’s how you feel, Terry…” he said, “well consider yourself invited, but I’m warning you…my house is a wreck. Now grab another box of Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.”
“Take the lead, Kimo Sabbi.” …and he led her down a path of murder, sabotage, prostitution and perversion. A shadow land of jealousy, envy, pride…His strange desires held sway, and she knew there was no way back now that she was in so deep. Her years were wasted, tossed away like empty beer bottles thrown through the windows of a speeding cars. He took the lead, alright. He led her straight down his own long and winding road to hell…
…But that’s not what happened…sorry.
