The Barroom Chronicles… Vol 15 Freaks of a Feather

Sometimes is best to leave an event alone, allow the dust to settle, before gloating about ruffled feathers and sandy vaginas left in its wake. As the proprietor of ‘The Evil Bar’ in our tiny town, and a person who may or may not have been involved with the genesis of such a stunt, I believe the smoke has cleared enough to let the world know of such hijinks. This thought is based on the equation: Comedy = tragedy  + time.  Though there was no tragedy involved, there may have been numerous pairs of soiled underwear and/or attacked hearts, unless you take into consideration those without a sense of humor, their skipped heart beats and dirty drawers could be construed tragic.

On July  19^th, 2012 at approximately eleven PM Mountain Daylight Time,  roughly an hour before Aurora, Colorado entered the cultural lexicon,  a couple of cohorts had a nasty idea for a practical joke. Of course, I couldn’t resist.  Those of you who follow this blog know about the ‘old west gunfights,’ we hold during Railroad Days, our little town’s yearly celebration. The night in question, we were walking through the scenarios for the following Saturday.

Krash Montana… Also known as Number 1

“Hey,” Cohort #1 said, “I have an idea.”

I should have known it was a bad deal.

Cohort #’s 2 and 3 said the idea rocked. “Let’s do it.”

I wasn’t at the ‘other bar’ to witness the event. But, I’ve heard the story enough, it goes like this:

Cohort #3 walked into the other bar and said there was a bunch of drama up at ‘The Evil Bar.’  Cohorts 1 and 2 were arguing about money that 2 owed 1. Being that both 1 worked for 2 and as someone said later, 2 owed a few people money, made the premise believable. A few minutes later 1 and 2 appeared in front of the other bar in the midst of a heated argument.

Now, Number 1 is an actor. He has the ability to get into a role and make it work. Outside of Al Pacino, I’ve never seen a better Tony Montana. Being gangster isn’t a stretch.

Number 2 is a loveable giant. Everybody in town adores him and he can possibly be the kindest person alive. Not to mention he can cook up a storm. So imagine the scene when 1 called out 2 in front of a small crowd of people who have drank with 2 since Camden was a prairie. Then he has the audacity to pull out a replica revolver and fires a shot into 2’s chest. Number 2 did his part and fell back against the outside wall. People scattered, the manager came unglued and the bartender, who happened to be walking by, allegedly peed her pants.

Meanwhile, those of us left behind at the ‘Evil Bar,’ were listening for two shots. Like Number 1 demonstrated before leaving, holding the revolver gangsta style while saying: “Pop, Pop.”

We giggled like kids hearing the first shot, imagining the mayhem. “Hey,” someone asked. “Where’s the second shot?”

The simple answer, things never go as planned. After the initial shock and awe, Number 2 had to jump up and proclaim “It’s just a joke!”  The manager, a mellow 50 something gal, instantly turned into a grizzly bear and allegedly read the riot act in numerous languages, leaving the three Cohorts pleading their case why they shouldn’t be eighty-sixed.

“What’s going on?” I asked a regular who had tagged along to witness.

“Oh man, it didn’t go good.”

“What happened? Where was the second shot?” I asked, panicked. I imagined 1 getting the tar beat out of him.

What I thought may have happened.

“Nothing that bad,” the witness said. “1 and 2 are buying rounds to make it good.”

It would be an hour before the three amigos returned. “So?” I asked.

“They called us freaks and told us to go back and drink with the rest of the freaks,” Number 1 reported. The comment confirmed my suspicion that freaks of a feather really do drink together.

Nightwatching – Sneak Preview

You may have noticed I haven’t posted lately.  Mainly because I’ve been placing the final touches on Cemetery Street – the paperback, working on Montana Rural and prepping what follows: Nightwatching.   Nightwatching is a ghost story that will be released in digital format later this year.  Enjoy this glimpse, and please, let me know your thoughts.

1) Do the Dead Forgive?

1)

Breathless, he watched. Around him, sunlight rippled through the treetops and danced across the ground. Nearby, snowmelt tumbled down a swollen creek. Despite the water’s roar, something deep within the woods caught his attention. His gaze knifed through trembling shadows. Whatever it was, froze, paralyzed by fear. After a long moment, he lost interest and continued barefoot across the forest floor. At creek’s edge, he studied the cascading water until he heard a distant rumble.

He leapt upon a large boulder in the middle of the creek. Holding his balance on the rock’s cold, slimy surface, the boy ignored the icy stabs of the creek’s spray while focusing on an approaching plume of dust and marl. His eyes narrowed and locked upon the white truck speeding along the dirt road. After a moment, he jumped into the pristine, glacial water. Unflinching, he waded towards a small bridge. Underneath, he gazed upwards as wooden planks rattled under the racing truck.

2)

They sped along a little too fast for the rutted, washboard dirt road, eyes focused on the mountains guarding either side of the narrowing valley. The truck lurched, its rear end bucking sideways. The driver tightened his grip on the steering wheel, struggling not to overcorrect as his passenger grabbed the Jesus handle.

“Damn it, Travis, are you trying to kill us?” Sondra snapped. “Slow down!”

After a brief battle to right the truck, he eyed his wife. “Ain’t use to this country driving.”
“Just because you want to live like a hillbilly doesn’t mean you have to speak like one.” She glared at Travis before turning her gaze out the passenger window. Sondra mumbled to her reflection: “I can’t believe we’re going to live here.”

In silence, they drove past peaks dubbed Squaw, Stark, and McCormick and over creeks named Butler, Kennedy, and Soldier, kicking up enough dust to obscure their past. As they crossed the last of these bridges, a brief chill overtook Sondra. Rubbing her arms, she glanced at the Cheyenne’s air conditioner— the thermostat read seventy. She turned her attention to the vast coniferous forest covering the slopes of the funneling valley and the peaks above.

It is beautiful, she begrudgingly admitted to herself. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the summer day. With a sigh she admitted there were worse places to live.

The cabin was much smaller than they were used to, which was fine; it was only the two of them. Anything bigger would remind them of the void between them – a tombstone was funny like that.

“Welcome home,” Travis said, patting her thigh as they crept up the driveway.

Sondra watched him slip out of the truck, take a deep breath and do a three-sixty, his gaze scanning the mountaintops. He’s really aged, she thought, noticing his receding hairline. Spots of gray peppered his once thick brown hair. Deep-set crow’s feet etched the corners of his eyes. It seems just yesterday he graduated college, full of boyish charm. Now he’s thirty-five going on sixty. God, where did time go?

She gazed at the cabin; rustic was a generous description. Her eyes followed the narrow deck that wrapped three sides. She sighed, reapplied her game face and stepped from the truck into their new life. Slinking around the front of the Cheyenne, she stepped into his arms to embrace him. She peered into his eyes, hoping hers weren’t as empty as her heart. She kissed him. “Congratulations.”

Taking her hand, Travis led her through a simple gate and down the stone walkway. He smiled as the deck creaked under their footfalls. It was a long time since he felt this good, this energized, this alive. He could count the times. The day Anthony was born, the night Sondra accepted his proposal, but more than any, the day his business loan was approved. From that point, his destiny rested in his own hands. After a decade of hard work, he was no longer a racing rat. Free to enjoy life, he couldn’t think of a better place. No clutter, no traffic, seclusion—they had few neighbors. If they chose isolation, it wouldn’t be hard to accomplish.

They could afford Flathead Lake, Whitefish, or Big Sky, instead Travis sacrificed opulence for simplicity. Living here, he would never have to work another day in his life. Travis would never have to deal with the people he had grown to detest.

He looked through the door’s window. The movers were here. Smiling, he led Sondra inside. With a burst of energy, Travis plunged into the last job he thought he would despise – unpacking.

3)

A shard of sunlight fell through the window, bathing Sondra, burnishing her brown hair auburn. Slowly she rocked, legs curled beneath her, the steady creak of the hardwood floor keeping time for the setting sun. Consciously avoiding the mantel, her eyes explored the gloomy living room. Logs stained a shade too dark. Windows, too small for the walls, begrudgingly admitted daylight. On the opposite wall, footprints crossed its length. How did they get there? she wondered.

Following the footprints, her gaze moved to the kitchen. A butcher’s block, bucolic, stood in its center. Dark cabinets nested upon the kitchen walls, looming over a green counter top. At least there’s enough cabinet space, she thought. Sondra’s eyes wandered up the center post that supported the loft and gazed into their bedroom.

“A loft,” she sneered. “Our bedroom is a loft. At least there’s stairs.” I could be reduced to climbing a ladder, she thought.

The stairs were on the far side of the loft, flanked by a dingy hallway leading to a dreary bathroom. Thank God for conveniences, she thought. Sighing, Sondra felt as though they had moved into the walk-in cedar closet of their old home, an eight-thousand square foot behemoth.

Still rocking, she could no longer resist the pull of the photos on the mantel.

Anthony’s eternal three-year-old gaze held hers. He had his father’s eyes, she thought, awash in self-hatred. The picture, taken a week before his death, dominated the mantel.    She stood and approached the photo. Behind her, the chair continued rocking. Taking the frame in her hand, she traced a finger over the boy. “My God,” she uttered, realizing they buried him in the same suit he wore in the photo. “My baby,” she whispered, a tear falling upon the boy’s framed face.

A thud reverberated through the roof.

Sondra jumped; a muffled cry escaped her lips. She clutched the frame to her breasts. Gooseflesh ascended her arms and spiraled along her spine. “Who’s there?”

Silence answered.

She padded through a blizzard of dust storming across the dusky room. Clutching Anthony, she stepped into the kitchen and peeked out the door. A dark shadow floated from the back of the cabin. Quickly she spun, resting her back against the wall, heart racing.

Ghosts, Goblins and Giveaways

Welcome… Watch your step…  my apologies it’s so dark in here.  What’s that? You think it’s creepy? Is the floor creaking or is that your heart beating? Oh, you felt something scamper across your feet, don’t fret, it’s only the rats – they’re hungry and in this blog they eat cats. This place is their favorite haunt. Rats like treats too, even if it is you!  :evil laugh:

You better duck, the cob webs are atrocious.  The last person got a mouth…  Oh my, what’s that creeping up your back? Why so jumpy? Did I mention the spiders?  Don’t scream! Be quiet! You will wake the dead!

Oh my, look at what you’ve done! You did it! You woke the dead! Look at her, sitting there, crying because you’ve interrupted her eternal sleep.  Very good,  now that you have control of yourself, you may notice  other screams. Please ignore them, they’re the last  visitors to this blog, they got lost in another post and never  got out.  Now they’re stuck, in this written hell, waiting for the cemetery to call their name.

Instead of these cemeteries, wouldn’t you rather stroll down Cemetery Street? There are no zombies, werewolves, ghosts or goblins; but there is a Count, and his friends Shannie and James, who thrive on the tears their story brings.  Tell me the truth, don’t lie, I know you’re dying for a good cry.

Speaking of dying, are you dying for a treat? Would you like something sweet? You will find that on Cemetery Street…   Click on its cover and enter HA38J.

Or maybe your mind prefers something dark? You may want to fall into Shangri-La Trailer Park. Don’t be fooled, heaven isn’t easily found in this psychological yarn.   To fall into The Park, click its cover and enter YU69H.

Pick you poison, before the poison picks you. There are no smoke and mirrors here, but you better hurry, both coupons expire at the witching hour Halloween Night!

If you would be so kind, visit Cemetery Street and Shangri-La Trailer Park Facebook pages and drop  a line.

Thank you for participating in the First Annual Trick or Treat Blog Adventure. Click here to continue the tour. Hopefully you’ve found a new favorite Author and I’ve found a favorite new reader. Happy Holidays!