Dirty Southside Jam on Kickstarter
You can learn all about the book and my goals for the fundraiser, as well as contribute, just by clicking that link. Just think: you would be helping a starving artist to take the next step toward putting food on the table for three hungry children and one pregnant wife. For the record, the kids are well-fed, but as anyone who has children can attest, they're almost always hungry. Anyway, I wanted to provide you with something more here, so I'm going to drop the basic hook for Dirty Southside Jam and an excerpt on you. I'm giving you the first chapter, and even if you don't elect to chip in and support me, any and all feedback is welcome.
Thanks, peeps! You know I'd do it for you.
So, what's Dirty Southside Jam about? It goes something like this:
Billie Boyd, better known to the good people of Bogut as Blue, is the kind of guy whose luck only comes in one flavor. Sometimes it seems that his entire life has been punctuated by one bad break after another, but that's okay. He's a simple guy at heart, a man who has learned not to expect much. Everything changes when Blue finds a small fortune and decides to keep it, believing that his luck has finally turned.
He should have known better.
Now, good old Blue is at odds with a drug-peddling brute, a ruthless killer, and a corrupt lawman. His only ally is an aging drifter who likes to smoke pot and drive fast. A man who never asked for much has bitten off way more than he can chew, and it's becoming painfully obvious that his next bad break will definitely be his last.
Now, here's a sneak peek at the first chapter. Enjoy!
-
Chapter One: Good Old Blue
Billie Boyd was
enjoying another leisurely night at Cinema City. Lately, leisurely nights were all the place
had to offer. Billie was better known to
the people of Bogut as “Blue” and he was a quiet fellow who seemed to give off
a bit of warmth, an intriguing outsider who was very comfortable in his own
skin.
The lean
projectionist was in the lobby, wiping down the counters with a rag that was
old and worn. Blue had long hair that he
sometimes pulled back in a ponytail, but tonight it was hanging in his face as
he worked. Blue had never been employed
anywhere else and the theater was like a second home to him, but he didn’t
think it would last much longer.
The failing cinema
had once been regarded as a terrific place to catch a movie. Twenty years ago it was undoubtedly the local
hot spot, particularly when a true blockbuster was playing. In those days, the parking lot was often so
full that late arrivals had to park at the pizzeria down the hill and hoof it
from there.
Blue had made that
journey on numerous occasions in his time, but nobody had a hard time finding a
parking spot these days. The old theater
was barely turning a profit and the parking lot was mostly empty, even on
weekends.
Cinema City had
fallen into a sad state of disarray and it was getting worse with every day
that passed. The carpet was old and
dirty, fraying in some places and stained in others. In one spot the red wallpaper had peeled back
to expose a filthy yellow expanse of drywall.
The video games lining the lobby were a primitive array of battered
shells housing unheralded titles.
Blue watched as an
old man approached the front of the cinema to study the posters advertising the
movies they were playing. The old man
lingered in front of each sheet, trying to muster up some enthusiasm, but
nothing caught his fancy. Grimacing, he
turned and walked away.
Blue sighed. He loved this place, and it pained him to
watch it wither away right before his very eyes. They hadn’t added any new features to their
bill for three weeks in a row, a drought that would hamper any cinema’s
business. In fact, this was the worst
Saturday night Blue had ever been on hand for.
They had sold a
whopping sum of fourteen tickets for the three seven o’clock shows. To make matters worse, the concession stand
hadn’t made so much as a dime after the movies started. Unfortunately, this was typical of late, as
Cinema City was mired in a lingering slump that had Barry contemplating doing
away with the latest show on each day aside from Friday and Saturday. If it came to that, things were definitely
coming to a halt sooner rather than later.
Blue had held his
job since he was in high school and he had always displayed a loyalty to the
place that was inexplicable and wholly undeserved. Barry made it clear that he liked Blue and
appreciated his efforts, but he wasn’t about to provide a raise that matched
his praise. He seldom gave his star
employee enough hours and the old coot was always too busy ogling the young
females who operated the concession stand to truly appreciate Blue’s
efforts.
When Barry finally
got tired of scraping by and decided to close the doors for good, Blue would
have to move on to something else.
Until then he was getting paid for doing almost nothing, which was nice,
but maybe it would be wise for him to start looking at other options.
The next job he
took would certainly be more difficult.
He had it made at Cinema City.
Most nights he spent far more time reading whichever book he was
currently devoted to than attending to the patrons or the projectors. Currently, he was plowing through an old copy
of North Dallas Forty by Peter Gent. His
copy of the novel came complete with yellow pages and a musty odor. It was one of his all-time favorites and it
frequently inspired him to laugh out loud.
Later, after all
the shows had let out, Blue finished his work upstairs in the booth, which was
actually a large room. He deftly
threaded each film through the projector for the next shift, his fingers dancing
through the process, his mind elsewhere.
Once he had assured himself that everything was in order with a cursory
walk-through, he went to the box and shut down all of the appropriate breakers
in rapid succession. He went downstairs,
set the alarm, and exited through the side door.
Blue strolled over
to his car, enjoying the crisp night air.
Some people seemed unable to shake their fear of the dark, but he had
always enjoyed the night.
Blue drove a 1992
Toyota Tercel that had a heart of gold.
He had owned four cars and each vehicle aside from the Tercel had proven
to be a total piece of shit. He hadn’t
called any of the others anything aside from random curse words, but the burgundy
Tercel he had dubbed “Martha” and he treated this particular lady with
tremendous affection.
The old girl was
rugged and dependable. He had owned the
vehicle for six years and she was steadily approaching three hundred thousand
miles. Blue was determined to take her
to that plateau and beyond. To date, she had avoided major repairs.
“That’s another
one in the books, Martha,” Blue said as he climbed in. He was smiling, but that wasn’t unusual. Blue smiled a lot.
Good old Blue.
Maybe his story is
a triumph of sorts, but then again it could be a tragedy. It’s a tale that begins and ends on a winding
stretch of country road in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. That ornery strip of asphalt is called
McClusky Lane, except when referred to as plain old State Route 79 (often
reduced to a raspy old 79) by those who have lived in Bogut long enough.
They like to spin
yarns about old 79 in these parts, and those yarns are frequently bloody
nightmares that yield restless nights.
Many of them are true, or at least based in truth, for on McClusky Lane
the straights are long and narrow and the twists come fast and hard. The road begins winding about the foothills
like a frightened serpent before skirting the lake, drawing perilously close to
the water’s edge. Later, long after most
of the traffic has filtered onto other roads, it crosses Cold Rock Creek via a
rickety covered bridge that has created concern amongst the populace for
decades. Thus far the decrepit wooden
structure has held, but all the old-timers agree that it won’t be long before
the whole thing takes a bath.
They’re probably
right about that, and someone is bound to go with it. Those old-timers know the lay of the land,
and they also know the history of these parts.
McLusky Lane is a mean stretch of pavement indeed, a dangerous country
corridor itching for blood. In most
places there’s a similar stretch of highway, a winding road in a lonely hollow
with a few twists too many and just enough room for reckless youngsters to
build speed and momentum. Like those
other passages in those other places, McLusky Lane has claimed far too many
lives.
It’s notorious not
only for a number of horrific accidents, but also for a history rich with
stories about moonshine, exciting tales of hotshot runners racing against the
law and taking big chances on that devilish road. There are a few major players whose names are
familiar to all those who call Bogut home, and virtually everyone living in
these parts still has some kin with access to a working still. White Lightning has always been a welcome
addition to any shindig in Bogut, and there’s seldom enough to suit
everyone.
Blue preferred
pot, but he could never pass on a jar when it was offered.
He hated the road,
though, hated it with a passion. He
agreed with the old-timers on that score.
While some people scoffed at the road’s reputation and wondered how the
locals could lend a strip of asphalt such personality, Blue was intimately
familiar with the woeful history of McLusky Lane. He had survived his ordeal, but he was a
victim nonetheless.
He was only eight
years old when the accident happened, but he could remember it vividly. It was never going to go away, he was certain
of that. No matter how hard he tried to
force the episode into the darkest recesses of his mind, those memories were
always crawling out to confront him at his weakest moments.
He was going for a
ride with his older brother when a deer bolted across the road in front of them
and Ronnie panicked. Billie screamed as
his brother yanked the wheel too hard, sending his rugged little Jeep into a
dangerous slide that quickly became a violent roll. The Jeep went off the shoulder and tumbled
down into a ravine, flipping four times in the process.
When it ended,
Billie was lying against the door with pieces of his brother in his lap. He was drenched in Ronnie’s blood and the
wreck had imprisoned him within the vehicle.
Physically he went virtually unharmed, but the mental anguish he
suffered was almost too much for him to endure.
He was trapped in
the wreckage for nearly four hours before they got him out, the stench of blood
filling his nostrils as the wet warmth of Ronnie’s remains pressed against
him. Gradually the sticky lumps of meat
that had once been his brother grew cold.
It would be nice
if he couldn’t recall that period of time, if it was lost in a fog, horrifying
yet shapeless, a formless nightmare from the past. Unfortunately that just wasn’t the case. It was still all too real to him even after
all this time. His mind hadn’t drifted
into shock or provided any distractions in the form of hallucinations. His memories were vivid, a gruesome record of
that terrible ordeal that had yet to fade and likely never would.
He had sat there,
drenched in blood, pieces of Ronnie all over the place, the grim horror of
reality refusing to release him into any sort of sanctuary. Time had never passed so slowly, each moment
stretching into an eternity, the hours crawling past like days. His spirit broke and his hold on his sanity
crumbled during that hellish passage.
When they pulled
him out of the mangled Jeep, he told the paramedics exactly what had happened,
describing the accident in great detail.
Then he lapsed into silence and closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember things so well for a
while after that.
It was better than
six months before he spoke so much as a word and nearly a year before he spoke
at any length about Ronnie or the accident.
He seldom talked at all and he began keeping to himself. Some of the kids starting calling him “Little
Blue Boy” and the nickname stuck. Time
whittled it down to “Blue” and he never resisted. He didn’t particularly like the moniker, but
he didn’t dislike it enough to object.
After a while, it become part of him.
He found himself
thinking about the wreck more and more these days, but he kept pushing it
away. It was far easier to find
distractions than to contemplate that horrid experience. It was over and he had suffered enough. He had moved on a long time ago and he needed
to forget it.
Blue shook his
head and grimaced. Some things were
easier said than done.
The sky above was
speckled with twinkling stars and the breeze was gentle. It was a nice night for September. Blue drove with his window down, listening to
a cassette tape he had purchased at the flea market for a dollar a few weeks
ago. It was the timeless Outlandos
D’Amour from The Police, a bargain at any price, and Blue was quickly wearing
it out.
He was only a few
miles down the road when he spotted David Blanchard walking along the side of
the road with his olive bag slung across his shoulder. David was an old salt who had pulled three
tours in Nam after earning quite a reputation for running moonshine in these
hills when he was but a pup. Most folks
around here knew who he was, and aside from those wearing badges, most felt he
was a good enough guy.
The current
sheriff was a chubby prick named Arthur Leopold III. He had been sheriff for nearly a decade and
his daddy had owned the post before his beefy son took his place. Some time before that, his grandfather had
been sheriff, but his time in office was cut short in a gruesome accident on
McLusky Lane.
He was chasing a
young David Blanchard at the time.
The first Arthur
Leopold was pitched through his windshield and slammed headfirst into a tree at
something like seventy miles per hour when he came into a sharp turn running
hot and didn’t have the mustard to bring his good old Ford around. His hat was found some sixty feet from his
body.
And so it was no
secret that the current sheriff despised the old vagrant, and surely there were
those who didn’t blame him, though in a place like Bogut most of the populace
preferred a man who ran moonshine to a man sporting a tin star.
Blue didn’t think
much of Leopold, but then he didn’t think much of any of the authority figures
he had dealt with. In his opinion, most people
who were given any small measure of power ceased with deliberation and began
acting on impulse. David, on the other
hand, was all right as far as Blue was concerned. Leopold wasn’t going to mess with the old
drifter if Blue could help it. He had
given the old vet a ride on several occasions for the same reason, and the dude
sometimes smoked him out in return for the trip.
They shook hands
and Blue asked the old drifter where he was going.
“Nowhere in
particular,” David said.
“That’s one of my
favorite destinations.” Blue put his
foot on the gas and Martha rumbled ahead, slicing through the night.
David settled back
in his seat, stretching his legs, making himself comfortable.
Blue found his
mind slipping toward the past again, taking him to another episode from his
youth that involved that wretched road.
The man sitting beside him was also a player in this memory.
When he was a kid,
long before anyone ever called him anything but Billie, he had invited a friend
over to spend the night. This was when
he and his family lived on a dirt road just off of McLusky Lane.
Billie and his
friend had decided to go for a walk and shortly thereafter the two of them were
a few miles from home, heading toward the lake.
They were walking along McLusky Lane, approaching the boat ramp and
enjoying the nice day as they went. They
were talking about comic books when a weaving truck sped by, nearly careening
into them.
Suddenly
the truck slid to a stop, pelting them with gravel. As they looked on in mute terror, a stocky
old man with a silver crewcut and a scraggly white beard lurched out, barreling
toward them with a club in his hand.
“Did
you give me the finger, boy?” He
bellowed as he advanced, his eyeballs swelling in their sockets until it
appeared they would burst.
It
occurred to Billie later that they should have run. Though imposing, the madman was old and built
for power, not speed. They could have
eluded him with ease, but foolish children that they were, they had stood
there, frozen in the grip of terror. Blue
and his friend were practically rooted to the ground as the stranger approached
with his barbaric weapon, his pupils so big they looked like black checkers to
the frightened boys.
“Huh? Did you?
Did you flip me off, son?”
Billie
didn’t know if the man was addressing him or his friend, but neither had made
any gesture whatsoever, so he said just that.
“Bullshit,
brat! I’ll teach you to give me the damn
finger.”
He
was poised to strike when David Blanchard came out of nowhere, calmly
approaching this roaring menace with his arms before him, his palms facing
outward. Billie would never forget the
way the drifter looked on that day, his black hair pulled back into a ponytail,
his beard thick and unruly, his worn combat jacket providing a stark contrast
to his red flannel shirt.
“It’s
okay,” David said in a soothing voice, almost as though he were dealing with an
animal. “We have a misunderstanding
here, man, that’s all. Let’s make sure
no one gets hurt.”
The
man with the club sneered, but he lowered the club. “Who are you?”
“I’m
no one,” David said flatly, “No one at all.”
“The
fuck did you come from?”
“Nowhere,”
David said in a soft tone. “It doesn’t
matter, anyway. Everything’s cool.”
As
young Billie watched the two men talk, he was sure that if the surly man with
the club made the wrong move, David was going to tear him to peaces. There was nothing in the vet’s manner or
stance to suggest this ferocity, but young Billie sensed it lurking just
beneath the surface.
In
the end, nothing grave happened. David
talked things out with the man and that old nutjob actually apologized before
leaving. Billie and his friend were
quick to depart as well, curtly thanking David and setting off with quite the
tale for their chums.
It had been a long
time since Blue thought about that incident, but it passed through his thoughts
as his trusty car raced through the darkness tonight, David Blanchard riding
shotgun. The strip of pavement framed
in the glare of his headlights was as a grey blur churning beneath them.
He suddenly felt the need to discuss
the episode. “When I was a child,” he
began, “I was attacked by a man with a club-“
“I
remember,” David interrupted, a tired voice emitting from somewhere within his
tangled mess of a beard. His thick
unruly hair hung about his shoulders, his grey locks frayed and dirty from a
lack of grooming. “I remember just fine.
Never could figure why the two of you didn’t just run, but I remember the whole
thing well enough.”
“You
knew that was me?”
David
smiled and took a joint from his pocket, lighting it with a devilish grin. The aroma of marijuana, tantalizingly sweet
and unmistakably pungent, filled the Tercel.
“Of course I knew it was you, boy.
Of course I did. The real
question is what did that crazy old bugger have a club for? Really now, who carries a club?” The old drifter shook his head and laughed.
Blue
was surprised. They had never discussed
anything of great importance before, but this acknowledgement seemed to suggest
a far deeper bond than Blue had imagined.
What was his value to this strange old bird?
After
several deep drags on the joint and few rattling coughs, David passed the joint
to Blue. He provided a sound imitation
of his predecessor in this regard.
Almost at once, the warmth began to spread through him and his body
began to relax. The Police were still
tearing it up in Martha’s cassette player, and the old stoner took note.
“This
is back when The Police were the shit,” David said, smiling as he lost himself
in the music. “They had their own
sound. I suppose it was only a matter of
time before one of the guys got uppity.
I just never imagined it would have been Sting.” The old drifter laughed. He took the joint from Blue and took two big
hits in rapid succession before continuing.
“I mean, who would have thought?
What are the chances of a guy named Sting having an ego? Especially if he’s a revelation on bass and
he’s got a pair of pipes fit for an angel.”
Blue
felt the need to say something, but he didn’t know what he could possibly
offer. “I’m really enjoying this album,” he said. He was clearly out of his depth.
David
pressed on. “Truly gifted. But he never did anything to rival this
one. Or maybe Reggatta De Blanc. That’s the one with Message in a Bottle. Nothing
in his solo career could touch The Police.
They had their own sound, man.”
“You
already said that,” Blue said, wishing he hadn’t.
“Well,
maybe I said it twice because I wanted to make sure you got the point. I mean, a man driving around with Outlandos
D’Amour in his tape player should understand these things. The Police weren’t some addition to some
scene, man. They were a scene. They had their own thing going. You dig?”
“I
get it. I got it. I’m the one who bought the cassette
tape. I’m listening to it, aren’t I?”
“No,
that’s what I’m trying to tell you. You
may be listening to The Police, but you aren’t hearing The Police. Not yet, anyway.”
An
uneasy silence followed, broken only by Martha’s steady hum and The Police’s
efforts on Next To You. Before long, Blue’s mind drifted to the past
again, taking him back to that strange episode on the side of the road. “Why-“ he began, but it was a question that
would go unanswered.
Later, Blue would
be unable to recall what he was going to ask.
He would remember little of what had transpired leading up to the
accident. Had they shared something? That gentle moment before the storm would be
lost forever in the glare of headlights and the scream of burning rubber.
For
the second time in his life, Blue was part of the dance as steel met steel and
flesh collided with machinery in a pulverizing display of power. Once again, he screamed as he was thrown
forward, his wail drowned out by a metallic squeal that filled the night.
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