[Preface and disclaimer: this is "stream of conciousness" writing, as all my first drafts are. I have a broad general idea of what this stroy is about, who the people in it are, how it grew out of the song that it is drawn from, but in my first draft i NEVER quibble over the finer points of grammer and stuff. It breaks up the mood. Please bear with me if the puctioation is wrong or there's a "their/there" type error. It is also, in a sense, an exercise to try to get the juices flowwing again. I can't - simply CAN'T do those little exercises that are so often recomended, I have to be saying something. But in the process it will give you a sample of the sort of thing I think I do well to critque. I hereby aknowledge that I could never get the rights to the song tie-in and if I were to try to have it published I would have to rework it into something that was no so heavily dependent on the work of Tom T. Hall. but sometimes when I am stalled, the ONLY way I can see a story is to see it jump from between the lines of a song. this happens to me all the time. but what I hope to tell here goes considerably beyond the lyrics of the song. That said, if you want to look "behind the scens" (and you aren't familiar with it already, here's the only youtube I could find on it... So with the next post, I'll see what happens.
The little guy really was awfully ugly. Mark wouldn’t admit it to his friends but he never was completely happy with himself for keeping quiet when they ragged on the kid, but there was no denying he gave them lots of ammunition. Every afternoon several of the guys had a laugh at the expense of the kid Bobby Wilkes had dubbed "It". At first, to aggravate his hateful sister but after a while, just for the sake of appearing clever. Mark would laugh at the jokes, and he’d been known to refer to the kid as "It" but it just didn’t seem right to pick on a mousey kid like that. Turning away from the bullying, Mark looked out the back window as the battered old school bus dropped down a gear to drag itself up a small grade on the dirt road they were traveling. Late spring was already turning dry and the dusty Mississippi roads left a thick tan coat on everything you could see. He smiled in pty at the three cars following the bus and choking on the dust cloud that followed in its wake. Old John was notoriously the slowest bus driver in the county and on this road they had no chance of getting around him. They must be cussing him something awful. Once the bus topped the hill and started down the grade on the other side, Mark grabbed his books and began making his way to the front of the bus. By the time he got to the front, Timmy Hooper was getting there too. Old John shot Mark a hard look from under the ragged John Deere cap that looked to have been on John’s head about as long as what was left of his hair, and said "How many times do I have to tell you to keep your dad gum seat until this bus stops moving?" "Sorry Mr. John, just anxious to get home. It won’t happen again!" Mark said. He knew better than to backtalk the old man — he and Mark’s Granddad were fishing buddies — but they also both knew that he had said "it won’t happen again" so often it was almost a tradition. By the time he’d gotten off, little Timmy was already crossing the road in front of the bus and Mark struck out down the field road that led of into a few acres of new corn in the opposite direction. Mark’s house was actually on another road altogether but he commonly got off at Timmy’s stop and cut through the small field and patch of woods that stood between the two roads. Mr. John didn’t mind because his was the only stop on that road and it made his route a lot shorter if Mark walked. For Mark, it was the easiest way to get guitar lessons. Crossing out of the corn and into the woods, Mark veered to the left when the trail forked, even though his house was down the hill to the right. In fifty yards or so he came into the clearing where Clayton’s shack stood leaning ever so slightly to the right. In the dusty yard in front of the shack lay three dogs which might generously be called coon hounds but who had never been seen to chase so much as a blowfly. An old plow which had a similar record of inactivity sat inappropriately next the porch and a half dozen assorted plastic liquor jugs lay scattered within sight of the front steps. Most of them had been there as long as the plow had. Sitting on the third step (or the second, depending on whether you counted the one which was broken in half that you had to skip over) was an old black man, Mark's grandpa would have called him a nigger but mark never really liked that word either, with a guitar across his lap that was clearly more cared for than the entire rest of the place put together. "Well, hello there young master Mark, what did they teach you down there at the schoolhouse today?" Clayton Delaney said with a raised eyebrow, but smiling. "Just stuff. We’re reading a poem called The Raven which is pretty cool and they told us the Gideons are coming next week so we have an extra day before the math test." "Rapping, Rapping at my chamber door" Clayton offered with a grin. "You know that story?" Mark hadn’t intended to let the surprise show in his voice. "I wasn’t always a drunk you know" he began, .but he stopped as if reconsidering how much the boy needed to hear him say what was next. Changing the subject instead, he asked "Your Dad still hasn’t come home?" "Nah, Mom says he’s not the same since he got back from the war. It’s been three years now and the fight all the time when he’s home. But he’s been in Memphis for seven months now and mamma says she doesn’t care if he ever comes back. She won’t tell me but I think they are gonna divorce." Clayton smiled that way that grown ups always did when they knew something they weren’t saying, "Sorry I brought it up. I wasn’t thinking." "Forget it Clayton, don’t matter none. What I really come for ws more guitar lessons. Mom says I might get one for my birthday if we can afford it." "I don’t mind showing you boy, you know that." "Can you show me how to play like Waylon Jennings? If I get good I’m going to Nashville when I graduate." "Well son you got two different things wrong in that idea. First off, don’t never try to play like nobody else. You mighta noticed that Nashville already has one Waylon Jennings and they ain’t lookin’ for no’ nother one. Even if they were there ain’t no honor in just copying what another man does. Second of all, you best be thinking college and not Nashville. You can look around you and see what playing that guitar will get most men." "You keep telling me that Cayton, but there are folks that make it too." "Sure enough. There sure enough are. But what I’ve seen and you ain’t is how many folks come back to the farm after trying for every one of them that ever sells a record. Got close myself one time, up north, but I reckon I told you that story already too." "Reckon you have." "Well, go inside and get the flat top and come on back and I’ll show you a little something for your trip." * * * * The first time Mark had taken this shortcut it was out of sheer boredom. His mamma had told him she had an appointment in town and wouldn’t be home for an hour after he got off the bus. It was a cool fall day and mark figured he’d walk across and mess around the woods looking for squirrel or deer tracks. Walking down the wagon-width path, he stopped and looked at the left fork. His dad had told him to stay away from up there. He had told Mark there wasn’t anything there but an old sharecropper’s cabin and a "nigger" that stayed drunk all the time. Every once in a while they would see him at town but mark had never been allowed to speak. But his dad had taken off two weeks ago and maybe this was the only chance for him to nose around some. So Mark had ventured up the path far enough to see the old shack. He had found him then pretty much as he found him today, except that he was playing the guitar that afternoon, and Mark had stood there fascinated by the music he heard. Presently, the old man looked up and noticed him and said, without smiling "What you want boy?" His tone was not angry or threatening, but neither was it inviting. Still, the two struck up a conversation and when mark began to ask questions about music, it became clear that this wouldn’t be his last visit. His dad had been right that Clayton Delaney was a drunk, but he was also a man with a lot of stories.
Anyone who's ever lived in a house with a screen door knows that distinctive "whap" that means a kid just came through. Beth Janssen laid aside the frayed dishrag in her hand, then unconsciously wiped her hands on her jeans and brushed a strand of hair that was more red than it was anything else but wasn't exactly red either out of her eyes and behind her ear. She steeled herself to address her son as sternly as she could. Mark barreled into the kitchen, tossed his books on the kitchen table and tossed a "Hi mama" her way as he made for the Kool-aid in the fridge. "You were up there messing with that old drunk again" It wasn't a question. "Ah, mama, why do you get so mad about that? He wasn't drunk" Mark offered trying to deflect his mother's unhappiness "He taught me another cord today." "If Delaney is awake, he's drinkin' and I don't like you being around it, people talk," she countered "and he puts crazy ideas in your head about playing in a band." "Nah-uh! He's told me a hundred times not to try that! I don't see how come you want to stop me anyway. Just cause a lot of folks don't make it don't mean I won't" "I just worry about you son, I know what kind of places you have to go through to get there. It's a mama's right." "I know what you're sayin' mama, honest I do, but Old Mr. Clayton, he ain't got no one else anyhow. I do all my chores and stuff and I wish you'd not be so hard about him." Mark was openly pleading now, and he knew for a fact what effect that would have on the woman before him. Beth turned and stared out the window for several minutes at the dusty blue Skylark stting in the drive. Mark really had been awfully good since his Dad took of. God only knew where Jack was at. Last she'd heard he was shacked up with some whore in south Memphis. She felt sometimes like she didn't have anyone it was fair to be mad at but damnit she had things to be mad about. Jack Janssen hadn't been the same man after he got back from the war. He worked for a while at Coulter's Sawmill but it wasn't long before he was hanging out with guys from work, drinking and smoking pot (he'd never done that before the war) and angry seemed like every hour he was home. Maybe she ought to be mad at him, hate his guts, but she felt like whatever he saw over there did this to him and she just couldn't be his enemy. It wasn't until she had to stop him from going after Mark with a broom handle for not taking out the trash that she'd told him she couldn't have him here. Not until he could control his anger. Mark had been a wonder in the seven months since. He kept up things around the house as best he could, whether it was big things like helping her get the garden in, or smaller jobs like volunteering to put plastic over the windows last fall. His grades were down some, but she hadn't ever worried that Mark would do poor in school and she was sure they'd come back next year. there was just this fascination with that Old Man. As much as it worried her, she didn't feel right cutting him off from the only man he'd got close to, or from the first idea of what he'd do with his life she'd ever seen him excited about (wanting to be a fireman when he was four hardly counted). "Okay, fine. I can't help worryin' but he seems like he's been good to you. But you best not let me hear of you drinkin' with him or I'll beat the hell out of you and him both, hear me?" "I understand mama. Can I go get changed now?" "Not until you give your mama a hug you little brat" Mark hugged his mama, careful not to rush it, then grabbed his books and headed for his room. This time of year there wasn't any homework to speak of but he had some chores to do before he was free for the evening. If he was lucky, he'd get done before Star Trek came on after the news. * * * Clayton spat out the dip of snuff that had been in his cheek and took a longer than usual swig out of the plastic jug of cheap whiskey. The pain in his neck ad the headache was getting worse than before and nothing eased it butat least the liquor made it tolerable. It wouldn't be true to say the old man had turned to drink to ease the pain. Not that pain anyway --- he'd been a heavy drinker ever since before he moved back home. Truth be told, he'd spent most of his life drunk since Otis died. it's why he'd lost any friends he'd had in the music business. But he'd become so accustomed to it now that he was what some folks called a "functional drunk" - better able to live his life half stoned than sober. But lately, what with the pain, he was drinking more, and spending more of his day too drunk to function. The wired man put the bottle down, wiped his hand over his thinning gray-white hair and stumbled slightly as he turned from the counter. The only thing in the house he cared to take care of was that guitar. He took it up in hands that no longer trembled, gave into the temptation to pick just a few notes of a familiar old blues tune, then he placed it in the black hardshell case it belonged in, and blew out the light. Following the glow from the still lit lamp next to his cotton filled mattress, he only wobbled a bit as he headed to bed.
Jack Janssen watched her putting on her makeup over the top of the beer bottle in his hand. Lying on the bed he could see her reflection in the mirror without any trouble. "Bambi" she had called herself the night he'd first met her. It was so completely stereotypical he had laughed right out loud. What else would an almost entirely naked bleach blond trying to sell him a dance at a second rate strip joint have said? So was, in every way that was in her control, the stereotypical trashy stripper. Bleached platinum hair, way too much makeup, loud clothing and jewelry, ever-present cigarette that really didn't get smoked very much, even a couple of small tattoos. she also had all the physical gifts one could want. she had the sort of body that a lot of girls paid good money for, and it came naturally. Apart from being only four foot ten, she was exactly what the job called for - and even that she had learned to turn to her advantage. Now she called herself "Sissy" and wore her hair in ponytails and tried to cultivate the "schoolgirl look" and she was making as much money as any girl in the place. Truth be told, she was making more than he was, and she didn't hesitate to remind him of it if need be. Driving a delivery truck around Memphis was the sort of job that, viewed objectively, a person might be told they were lucky to have but still felt to the one doing it as if things couldn't get any worse. Linda, her real name, was done in the mirror now and came into the bedroom moving quickly --- the girl who was picking her up for their shift tonight should have been here already. she grabbed the oversized bag she carried her things to the club in and began going through the clean, but not yet put away, basket of clothes sitting on the dresser. "Drinkin' it as fast as you make it, ain't ya Jack?" she said without looking in his direction. "Guess a man's got a right to have a beer on Friday night, not like I got anything else to do with you shakin' your ass at the club every weekend." That did draw a look, or was it a glare, from her "You better hope this ass keeps shakin' if you want to see the rent keep getting paid. The difference in what you make and what you drink ain't very damn much." "Is there ANYTHING I can say to you that doesn't come back to how much more you make than me?" She softened then, she really did like him for reasons he didn't quite understand "I'm sorry Babe, it's just...ya know...you LIKED the idea I was a stripper when we met. It seems more and more lately you disapprove." Jack started to say something stupid about a "real job" but checked himself. He'd done that before when he was drunk and she'd come back with what a pain in the ass his "real job" was and he still didn't have an answer to that. Besides, if he was honest, he DID like the fact she was a stripper. That's why he'd romanced her in the first place. Even if she was a sleazy stripper at a low class joint, and for all he knew whoring herself too, there was something exotic about it that appealed to him. Something dangerous and wild. "It's just that, the only nights any ever goes out and has any fun are the nights you are working. I love what you do and love that you love it but we never seem to go out and party ourselves." "We never have Jack, it's always been that way. And I've always told you not to let me hold you back. We got a good thing here, but I don't belong to you and you don't belong to me - go out and have some fun tonight. Hell, if you can't do that, go see your son." Jack just stared at her. He wanted very much to say something nasty right that moment but nothing came. As he searched for something that fit, a horn blew out front and she was out the door and gone for the evening.
Franklin unlocked the classroom door, steeling himself against the musty odor he knew would swirl around him after two days of being locked up. He had long since reconciled himself to the great, and growing, gap between the idealism that everyone hoped a teacher would have, and the cynicism which so easily beset the person who actually found himself in the classroom. To be sure, there was still a strong part of him which wanted to change the world by changing the future of these kids. Especially here in East St. Louis, these kids had a huge opportunity to live in a world closer to Dr. King's dreams than his generation had. There was no question though, he thought to himself, that they certainly made it hard for a teacher to be enthusiastic in such a drab environment. This old building felt inside more like a hospital or an institution than a place to build futures. He went to the back and raised shades and opened windows one by one - letting the cool late spring air drift in and relieve the oppressive heavy atmosphere in the room. The kids would be here soon, and the grind would start for another week. As the years gone by and he had seen how few of these kids really grasped that concept, more and more he found himself developing a coldness which insulated him from the sad reality that more often than not, nothing would be changed by his words. However, it is still true that for every teacher, there were those very few, sometimes only one in an entire year, who's eyes lit up when they saw you, who would go out of their way to greet you in the market, who longed for your approval, and who seemed to hang on your every word. Whenever Franklin felt like he was wasting his life, he could remember Marshall, or John, or Ellen, and he could sign on for one more year. But it seemed now, that the time was finally right to get out of the city and go back to Mississippi and slow down a bit. He had applications in all over the state, but he hoped that he could get close enough he could keep an eye on his dad. It had been too long since Franklin had seen him. As he looked around the room looking for anything that wasn't ready for the day to begin, his eyes linger again over the bulletin board where he proudly posted updates and photos from the lives of those kids that he liked to think he did make a difference with...Marshall was in pre-law at Ole Miss (Franklin's suggestion, even though he himself had not been able to attend there)...John was a reporter with a promising future with the local newspaper...Ellen is first in her class at Ball State, and on her way to being a teacher like her hero. He smiled at that. He hoped he would not lose touch with them when he moved. The bell rang long and loud in the hall and a few moments later, the first of his 11th grade students drifted into the room. A minute or two more, and Alisha came through the door, smiled broadly, and said "Good morning Mr. Delaney!" NOW he was ready to teach.
Bumped for Robotech Master and anyone else who's curious - looking back (I'm stunned it's been 3 and a half years!!) I'm not ashamed of this at all - other than it being yet another example of an idea started and never persued very far. However, this is different than most in that I know where this story goes - I just don't think it's the one you start your career with, it's the one yu publish after you have some credibility. not like I'm speaking from experience...
This is really well done. I skipped ahead a bit, I was still on the first post of story (not counting the one where you were speaking out of narrative). What I hadn't picked up on in that first post was your setting. You don't necessarily have to come right out with a sandwich board sign and tell us that, although some writers do. What I gather is, this takes place somewhere in a relatively rural location, likely in the south. What I'm not clear on is the era, although that's not necessarily a knock, because in some ruralities I've been to, you wouldn't necessarily know in the real world which era the place still belonged to. Over all, excellent so far. And here's a tip on "first published work" -- bet you nickels to noodles nobody's first published work is what anybody would think of trying to get published first. "This isn't something I could sell as a first-timer" is a trap, and one that keeps a lot of people from ever getting published at all.
you are right to pick up on the rural setting - my instinct was to only gradually pin that down so that the "identification" factor was higher. it could be rural Kentucky, or the Ozarks, or most anywhere in the deep south - but the initial hint is that this is an old blues man so you ought to have surmised "the Delta" or somewhere close to it. As for the era, I haven't found a good way to that point to hint at it but over time there will be references to national events which will date it. Just in case i decide to move forward, i'll spoiler the following. the reader is advised that i'm basically revealing the whole plot idea here, as well as the points you mentioned: I LOVE the concept. I just need to be not-so-damned-lazy about writing.
