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Post by Injin on Sept 21, 2016 0:16:50 GMT -5
the Trucker and the Drifter
It was just a yearly thing.
Johnny Gwerder had been using this highway since he started commercial driving twenty years back. Back when he’d started at Fuchs-Lang Shipping in 1996, he’d been already trucking for twenty-three years, but the old routes had gotten stale. Same direct line from Vancouver to San Diego, week in, week out. Dropping off cereal, toilet paper, whatever his bosses at the old place wanted. Now?
Now he was moving something a little more exciting, something he always wished he could do.
German Beer for Oktoberfest and other celebrations all over the US. FLS was an importer, and damn did they have a sizable selection. They had Bavarian beer, Bohemian pilsner, and a hell of a lot of Dutch, Austrian, and even Belgian lagers and ales. He helped people forget their troubles. On a regular day, he’d be moving it from Chicago to DC for some politicians or to Ft. Lauderdale for vacationers and he’d be making a killing.
Well, at least normally he would be getting paid. Today was the fifth day on his journey home for Christmas. Why his sister would want to live in the heatstroke capital of the USA, he’d never know.
That was part of the reason that the big Holiday get-together was held at her place. Besides the fact she lived in a mansion these days, she lived in a warm place. And damn did his family love not getting snowed in for the fifth time.
Suffice to say, everyone was willing to go to a place that avoided the normal hazards of blizzards and tornados if you were going to host and pay for their trips. Well. Almost everyone, that is.
Route 66. Dad’s number one vacation idea when he was a tot. Of course, though, they’d start in St. Louis, not Chicago, each year. Aunt Janine, God rest her soul, lived in Tulsa, so it wasn’t that far of a drive before they’d be pressured to stay a few days and then just head home out of sheer exhaustion. Everyone but Dad.
Got to see the sights of the good old USA, at least, that his Dad used to talk about. Then they’d stop at Auntie’s place. Four hundred miles wasn’t that far, but it always felt like a toll with him. There was a more important reason, other than those memories, that he was taking that broken road for a better purpose than any he had when he was too small to drive.
His brother, Abner.
For the last eighteen years, he’d picked Abner up in Amarillo so that he could actually make it to Phoenix without being nearly dead by the time he arrived. First two years he’d worked for FSL in Chicago, he’d offered to take his little brother to Arizona. Like a proud silverback, he would’ve preferred to do it himself and not have to rely on anything or anyone.
Halfway to their sister’s house two years ago, Abner finally got it into his thick head that maybe he should get some reliable transportation. So he called up his wonderful, caring older brother and told him about the situation he was in. And, of course, after turning around just within ten miles of their sister’s place, Johnny picked his sad, delirious younger brother up a day away from Santa Fe. Holed up at a reservation in the middle of the damned desert.
Abner wasn’t dead or dying that time, thankfully. But, after that, it was Johnny’s job to make sure that his little kid brother didn’t die trying to get to Arizona.
He’d be lying if he said it was thankless. For a few years when they were younger, he’d thought that Abner was dead in a ditch somewhere. Then, out of the blue, when he was in his late 20’s, his little brother was eating brunch with the wife and acting like no time had passed.
Contact with Abner was scarce. Still difficult even now. Despite that, though, they were as close as they were when they were youngsters. Although, now, they were getting grizzled. Sometimes they’d argue over little things and apologize to each other later. Wouldn’t be too many more of these trips left for either of them.
He was almost there. Every time he picked Abner up, it was at the Lucky 66 Diner on Gwerder Drive. Bet Abner thought that was hilarious, but really it wasn’t named after them. Some distant Gwerder from Switzerland had settled the area or something like that. One of the line cooks had told Abner as he was leaving one time, but as usual that rascal wasn’t having any of it. Just kept walking and jumped up into the bed of his pick-up. Last time they could use that old truck though. Engine didn’t make it through winter.
Yawning, Johnny slowly pulled into the parking lot of the Lucky 66 Diner and used that same spot he’d used the last seventeen times he’d been here. The place was about a day’s walk west from the inner city shelter where Abner had probably stayed the last week, if he got his distances right.
The windows of the diner showed their sheen in the slowly setting sun. It was about 5:00 PM at this point, so if Abner was being consistent, and damned would they both be if he wasn’t, then he’d almost be done eating. It took a little bit of looking and angling to find Abner, but there he was, fifth booth from the door. Same place every time, same side of the table, same Abner pigging out on a ham steak. Hygiene wouldn’t be a problem, hopefully, after his stern talking to last time. Last thing either of them needed was for him to pass out at the wheel because Abner smelled partway through putrefaction.
Seemed like Abner gave a rat’s ass this time, though. Hair was short and cropped, and a little more sun-touched this time around. Best clothes he could scrounge up, clearly. Pretending to not notice that his big brother had arrived, too. Typical behavior.
Putting the car in park, Johnny grabbed the book he’d been saving for such an occasion and opened it up. It was a memoir of sorts, right? Right.
Time went by slowly as he read, his eyes scanning slowly across each page. Occasionally, a few words were spoken aloud, annunciation clear and concise as he read them repeatedly. Some things just took time. Eyes flickering up on occasion, it wasn’t until 6:15 that Abner paid for his meal and exited the establishment. Three chapters down, eight to go.
Abner’s movements could best be described as a drunken gait, with the key bit of the walk correcting himself due to the whole “sober” thing he currently had going on. That same doddering walk as the last seventeen times. Almost down to a tee. The sack he was holding was a different sort than last time. Thinner. Definitely not burlap.
“Hey Johnny” Abner said, his forearms pressing against the passenger seat window, “mind letting me in? Getting late and I don’t want to die out here”
A slight snort left Johnny’s nose as he unlocked the car, tossing the book he’d been reading into the back. He could read later when they got to their sister’s place. Opening the car door with an exaggerated effort, Abner got himself seated by Johnny’s side and buckled up.
“You can put it in the back, Abner” Johnny said, a slight twang to his voice as he pointed near the fallen book, “but no tossing it. Last thing I need is a half-eaten chicken-leg staining my seats”
“Bah” Abner said, tossing the small sack with ease, “I learned my lesson last time. We’ll have plenty of food for me to eat in the morning. Can’t believe you want to keep this old thing clean considering the state of your last car”
“What can I say other than the old ‘memories’? Don’t mess up the car and we’ll be fine. Built this thing myself, if you’ll recall”
“Right, right. Forgot. Lots of things I’m forgetting these days. We’re getting old and forgetful, aren’t we?”
A silence took hold of the car as Johnny ignored the comment and put the keys back in the ignition. His eyes briefly looked over Abner’s as Abner put his hands up in mock surrender.
“Johnny, no need to look at me like fresh roadkill under your treads. Not sure what I said, but”
“Drop it Abner. Let’s get this show on the road and drop that dumb thing you said by the side of the road”
“Alright, then”
Abner had to have known what sort of thing he was suggesting. Dad sure didn’t, not at the end. Long gone by then, Abner hadn’t seen what happened to their father in the years after his absence, as someone who had been a father to all of them became a rabid husk and had been all but dead by the time that Abner had graced his presence in his home.
A flash of leather restraints and fearful cursing wasn’t the sort of mental image you wanted to greet you when you were driving. Abner.
Licking his lips as they made their way to the highway, Johnny was silent for a little while longer before turning, briefly, to Abner. “Sorry for snapping. You know why that sort of joke ain’t the sort I can listen to”
“Half-apology accepted, Johnny. I’ll try to remember.”
Silence again. The road besides the two of them whizzed by while the inside of the car remained static. Serene. Surprisingly odor-free.
“Johnny?” Abner said, breaking the silence, “about Dad”
“What about Dad?”
“I can’t remember a lot about him. Must’ve been eight or nine when I left home”
“You were thirteen, Abner”
“Must’ve been thirteen then, boss” Abner said slightly mockingly, before shaking his head a bit, “Got to have been. Right. Dad’s sister died that year”
“Going to have to correct you again, there. Try again”
“Look, will you just let me tell you what I’m trying to say?”
“Not stopping you”
“But you, whatever the heck you said” Abner said, struggling over his words as he looked at the sack in the back for a second. His hands clenched for a moment as he struggled with the words “I remember he was a sincere person. Almost nice at times. Boy did he get angry at me, though”
“Yeah, I suppose he did” Johnny said, his eyes glaring a hole through the windshield. Teeth gritted, stomach clenched, Johnny wanted to say something to get Abner to stop, but just didn’t. Couldn’t.
“Never could figure out why Dad never seemed to like me. Momma was a peach, but she didn’t say nothing unless he looked like he was about to hit me. Maybe it was my mouth” Abner said, rubbing his chin. His jaw showed signs of having been broken in the past, the slightest movement revealing a chunk of his lower junk had been shattered at some point.
“Dad was an odd bird at times, but I wouldn’t say that he hated you. He was the sort of man who didn’t like being contradicted on the regular”
“Like you?”
“I” Johnny said, his mouth agape as he struggled to answer, “kind of like me. Yet, I’d say that he wasn’t the happiest man when it came to my mouth either. Didn’t stop him from giving us both, us all, the best years of his life” Johnny added, his voice faltering as he spoke that last bit.
“Best years and the worst, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. I still see him in you though when you get mad”
“Can we stop talking about this?”
Another span of silence. Breathing in, Abner opened his mouth, “yeah. Can’t promise I won’t bring it up later. We have to talk about this”
“We don’t have to do anything of the sort. This steel chariot of mine ain’t going to spit you out of you bring it up again, but I sure as hell might”
“You don’t mean that, Johnny”
Quiet. Johnny’s eyes bored their way a further distance down the road, the beams of the car automatically turning on as the sun finished its dip into the horizon’s sea. “No, I don’t” he could never do that, “but don’t test my patience on that subject. Dad died last year. It’s still a subject I’d rather not revisit”
“That’s why I’m trying to talk to you about this, okay?” Abner said, a certain whining croak in his voice as he struggled to say nothing else. Abner’s jaw shivered and tensed, but nothing else came out.
The skies above the two began to darken more as sundown became night. The stars above them slowly shone out their crystalline shimmer just as the cosmos phased into view. Out here, between cities, you could see the sky as it truly was. Once the highway split from Route 66, the night far above the two only got more natural, unpolluted. Abner watched the changes with a sort of wry smirk on his face, some of his frustration dissolving. Closing his eyes, Abner turned to his brother, eyes still on the road, and gulped.
“Can I tell you something, Johnny?”
“Nothing I say will stop you. Might as well say it.”
“Wanted to talk to you about Dad for one reason. One really important reason that you have to promise you won’t tell our nosy big sis”
Letting out guffaw, followed by a short cough, Johnny turned his head briefly toward his brother before moving his eyes back to the road. “Something big I take it? Some dark revelation about Dad that you think I can’t take?” he said, his eyes crinkling shut for a second before he remembered what he was doing.
“Well, yeah. Kind of hoping you won’t take the wind out of my sails until after I’ve said my peace, but I guess we’re both impatient men. Dad, before I left, he kind of started acted weird around me. Said I wasn’t looking at things that I should be and that I was looking at stuff he didn’t want to think about. ‘Kook science’, as he put it. Found that I was reading some sort of textbook by this here Kinsey fellow, which I was reading because they had it in the library and”
“The point, Abner” Johnny said, his eyes squinting as his left hand shook
“He told me that if I didn’t like it when he told me that I couldn’t do something, I could leave. Don’t think he saw it as kicking me out, but that’s what he did. Told me I couldn’t live there unless I was a”
“I know about that. All of it!” Johnny interjected, his arms shaking badly.
Abner’s eyes quivered for a second. His mouth gaping as he tried to speak, to say, to interject. Anything. His expression ran the gamut of shock, disappointment, anger, and sadness all within a single moment. “How?” Abner said, his voice strangled in his throat as he tried to say anything else.
“The last five years of Dad’s ailment were unpleasant. Every time I’d visit, he’d murmur to himself or yell about that night, as if my presence were as vexing to him as” he said, stopping for a moment to unclench his hands before continuing, “you were when you were younger. Nurses said that he was put to sleep without a fuss when I didn’t come around. Anger restrained, I think, was his emotion on the matter. Not sure if he even remembered why he was angry at you. Don’t think he had a clue about what happened afterwards, either”
For a little while after that, the road beneath the car’s wheels was the only noise that rang out in the night. Abner buzzed in his seat, shaking on occasion as he censored himself. Johnny slightly ground his teeth as time went by. Both brothers’ jaws wired themselves shut with the air between them. They were climbing the mountains now. The arid desert, unfelt in the air conditioned car, shifted to a cooler and more temperate area, which shifted again after a little bit to a forested hillside.
“You, you never said anything”
“Why would I tell you, Abner? I can see how it hurts. It really pains you to hear it. Never seen you choke up like that before. Had to lie and say things were peachy.”
Abner was silent. His eyes flitted to the left and to the right, his body slumping softly against the side door. “I never thought Dad thought other than what he told me. Never seemed to be sorry about what happened. Thought to send him a letter once asking if he wanted me to come back. Sent one to momma, though. Never got a response”
“That I didn’t know” Johnny interrupted, the grip on the wheel slipping for a little before he swerved ever so slightly around a deer in the road, “but Dad, he got into being a mean drunk a few years after you were gone. Wouldn’t be surprised if he found it before Ma and tore it to pieces”
“Vindictive. When did Dad get so cruel?”
“Didn’t even know his memory was going until one day he forgot his license when he ended up at my high school waiting to pick me up from school. Had the gall to yell at me asking where I was.”
“Johnny?”
Johnny said nothing, his eyes on the road. They passed a sign.
Flagstaff. 10 Miles.
“I hated the bastard. He practically shoved you out the door and I had to take care of him as he slowly forgot what he did. To you. To all of us.”
Silence again.
“Abner, I don’t want you to forgive Dad or any of that hokum. I know you are trying to justify what he did to you for some twisted reason by living on your own and staying away from us. He’s dead. You ain’t.”
Abner shut his eyes and leaned back, sinking into his seat a bit. A hand pressed against Johnny’s shoulder as they exited the freeway. Abner’s arm moved back, his hand bumping into his other one before he took hold of it. His mouth opened, denial on his breath, before pride gave way to a fall.
“Can, can I maybe stay”
Johnny’s voice cut Abner off, “You can stay with me for a while. Til’ we find something better for you. Close by.”
Abner’s head turned sideways to the window, face clenching as rivulets, tiny and fast, flew down his face. He clawed lightly on the door, his eyes moving from the slowly shifting landscape back to the road.
“Door’s locked, Abner. If you want me to pull over, I will. It’s your choice”
Rivulets became streams, soft hiccups coughing out of Abner’s throat as he stopped clawing at the door.
The car pulled slowly into the hotel parking lot. They’d be in Phoenix tomorrow afternoon. Abner sat still as the car’s engine shuttered, no longer in use. Minutes ticked down and faded as they sat there. Slowly turning his head, Abner looked over to his older brother and nodded, tears no longer flowing from his eyes.
“My choice. Stay. Sounds alright by me.”
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Inkdrinker
Scribe
Sepulcher: a stage enlived by ghosts.
Posts: 908
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Post by Inkdrinker on Sept 21, 2016 2:09:44 GMT -5
The Trucker and the Drifter
(A Monologue) Jesus is a trucker. I know it, I met him. He always delivers on time, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment. Sometimes the cargo he brings is good, sometimes it’s not-so-good, but it’s up to us to decide what we do with it. Yes sir, Jesus is a trucker. The best trucker of ‘em all. He doesn’t take no uppers (besides a cup of coffee or two, of course, as all good truckers do), he never solicits those truck-stop girls, ‘cept to preach the good word and help ‘em find their way back home. Jesus gets a good eight hours before hittin’ the road and always stops to help a fellow trucker in need. He gives directions to tourists at rest stops, slipping a few bucks to the stranded, and one for the tired mother of crying children, so she can buy them a treat from the vending machine and finally have a moment’s peace. Jesus is a trucker and he saved me. I was an evil man, a selfish man, a man who didn’t deserve the sunlight on his shoulders. I drifted from place to place, spreadin’ bile and ruckus wherever I went. I was sick: sick in the body, sick in the soul, but I wouldn’t take help from no man. Got money where I could and spent it where I wanted, never sparin’ a dime for nobody else but me. When I felt good, I smoked, when I felt bad, I drank, and when I didn’t feel nothin’ at all, I did worse than that. Turned my life to crystal, all brittle and hazy. I did things I ain’t proud of, but I don’t believe in the unspeakable. If you can’t speak it, you can’t acknowledge it, and if you can’t acknowledge it, you can’t be forgiven. So let me tell it in full: I desecrated my body and my mind with vile substances; I laid with with married women, impure women, and women of the night; I hit men, made ‘em bleed, in anger and for my own pleasure; I took things that did not belong to me, money, drugs, and weapons; I cheated honest men and swindled the vulnerable; I put myself before others, and finally, I doubted God. All this, Jesus forgave. I was baptized on the cold linoleum floor of a truck-stop men’s room. There I was, on my knees, spillin’ my sins into a filthy toilet bowl. My lust went first, comin’ out in great big chunks, followed by the remains of my gluttony and slimy greed from the pit of my stomach. I coughed and sputtered my sloth away, and with a desperate, porcelain-shattering wallop, my wrath was gone too. Envy burned my throat on the way up and my lips on the way out. I collapsed, totally defeated, my cheek resting on the broken toilet bowl, pride dribbling out of the corner of my mouth. A man approached me then, at least I thought he was a man, I know now he was much more than that. He had long sandy hair and a red-white-and-blue hat emblazoned with the Pabst Blue Ribbon logo. “You alright there?” said Jesus, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Fuck no,” I said, though I shouldn’t have. Not cuz of the language, though that was disrespectful, but because it was a lie. I lied to Jesus. In that moment, with his hand on my shoulder, I was alright. In fact, it was the best I’d felt in years. That’s the power of his touch, that’s the power of his presence. Even today, I can still feel his hand on my shoulder, when I stand in the sun and look towards Jerusalem. Jesus looked at me—I mean really looked at me—and then he said somethin’ I ain’t ever gonna forget. “Loudon,” he said, with a voice like milk and honey, “don’t lie to yourself and don’t lie to me. You are alright. You hear me? You. Are. All. Right. You always were, underneath. Can’t hide it from me. You were alright and you are alright and you will continue to be alright. You’re a good man, it’s time you remembered that.” Then he got real quiet and leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Take my hand,” he said. I couldn’t argue with that. He took my right hand, palm against palm, and held it tight. Then I felt his left hand against the back of my head and I knew what was gonna happen next. “Loudon Andrew Dillaway, I baptize you in the name of your creator, redeemer, and sustainer.” With that, he dunked my head into the toilet. Now, I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’, how do I know it was Jesus? Coulda been anybody, right? Somebody coulda grabbed my wallet outta my back pocket while I was out, read my name off my driver’s license, and then played me for a fool to get a quick laugh. That’s what you’re thinkin’. But it was Jesus, alright, and what happened next is proof enough of that. Instead of the slurry of vomit, urine, and toilet water I had expected, my face plunged into purest rosewater. It was a miracle, sweet and warm. He only held me there for about five, maybe six seconds, but I saw my whole life, every choice I’d made, and where it had lead me. I realized that though Jesus forgave me, he didn’t change me: that I had to do for myself. “Feel better?” he said, as I came up for air. I felt incredible, the road in front of me was clear like never before. “Yeah,” I said, “I really do.” “Come on then,” he said, producing a razor and comb. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” I felt like a new man and after a few minutes with Jesus (an excellent stylist on top of everything else, can you believe that?), I looked like one too. He escorted me out of the bathroom and into the light of the Arizona afternoon. “Here,” he said, handing me a crumpled note and a set of keys. “Take my truck. You need it more than I do. There’s an address on that note, in Tulsa, that’s where you’re headed.” I was stunned. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for everything.” He smiled at me and tipped his hat and spoke the last words I’d ever hear from him. “Just remember, down the line, when you see someone in need...” “I will,” I said. He nodded and smiled again. Then Jesus walked off into the desert and I never did see him again. So that’s my story. The story of a drifter who was forgiven and became a trucker. And now I’m tellin’ it to you, fella, cuz it looks like you could use some forgivin’ yourself. So I say to you: you are forgiven. And I say to you: you are alright. And I say to you: take my keys and take my truck, cuz heck, you need it a lot more than I do. |
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Post by James on Sept 22, 2016 22:26:30 GMT -5
Injin
So, first of all, I want to say I’m really impressed at how you’ve been taking people’s feedback onboard and incorporating them into your writing. I’m genuinely impressed, maybe even proud of how you’re working on things. And for the first half of your story, the narrative really flourished due to the work you’ve been putting in. I really liked the first two and a bit pages and the bits I disliked would be minor things, like a little less familiarity within the narration. But, on the whole, up until Abner climbed into the truck, everything was going great and I was impressed.
Then the dialogue began.
I got Nebraska flashbacks, Injin. This is nowhere near as bad as that Nebraska story, but the dialogue was still a struggle. Essentially, there are two (almost paradoxical) problems with your dialogue: first, everyone talks in a really formal way, and secondly, everyone uses horrific folksy language at times. Like I said, those two things sound like they can’t exist peacefully with each other, but somehow life you, uh, found a way.
What do I mean by overly formal? I don’t mean all sir’s and ma’am’s and so on. It’s just the dialogue is really wooden. “I learned my lesson last time. We’ll have plenty of food for me to eat in the morning. Can’t believe you want to keep this old thing clean considering the state of your last car.” There’s not a natural patter to this dialogue. Say it aloud. It doesn’t feel natural.
What do I mean by horrifically folksy? “no need to look at me like fresh roadkill under your treads” or “this steel chariot of mine ain’t going to spit you”. Can you read that out loud and think that’s what an actual human being would say?
So what we should do about this problem of dialogue? My advice to you previously has been “don’t write stories with dialogue” which I don’t think is practical anymore. And considering how well you’ve taken on feedback so far, I’m really keen to try and sort your dialogue out. So let’s do this shit.
The normal go-to advice for dialogue is to read the dialogue aloud and see if it sounds like a real human being. In fact, I already gave you that advice twice above. But I’m not sure if that will actually work for you. Because I can easily picture you saying “no need to look at me like fresh roadkill under your tread” and thinking that is completely normal talk. So we need to come up with something else.
You’ve talked to your girlfriend. You’ve talked with your family. You’ve talked with us idiots. You know how other people talk. What I’d like to see you try is read out your dialogue and stop and consider “does this sound like something James might say?” Or Pete. Or your dad. Or Nina Simone. Anyone. We’re looking for dialogue that sounds realistic or normal. I’d like to see you really get a handle on the dialogue issue. It doesn't have to be fancy; most people don't talk fancy.
There’s also one other thing. I saw that Pete’s review for your second round was that it occasionally got confusing. That you sacrificed clarity while trying to attempt to tackle more ideas and so on. I think clarity is something to keep an eye on. Because whereas the first half of the story was crystal clear and great, by the end of it, I don’t really know exactly what happened. The ending was just slightly off.
So, conclusion: some great work at the start. You’ve really made some great gains in prose writing. However, dialogue and clarity are areas to really work on.
Inkdrinker
I didn’t think I was going to like this story. I am not the target audience for monologues or stories about religion. Yet, I actually think this is a really great little story.
The story really flows. The monologue works here because the narrator has a distinct style that carries through the story and makes it easy to read. My only thing is to just keep an eye out on repetition, whether it be sentence structure or word choice. There are a whole lot of sentences starting with ‘I’, which is always going to be a problem in a monologue, but probably could have been lessened a little bit. It just provides some variety to the reader.
There were some great descriptions and word choice. I never knew that vomiting could be written so poetically. The narrator never reaches a point where he’s irredeemable which is important. Nor does it get preachy, which is also important. The only time I think you falter is the line about Jesus being a great stylist. It just doesn’t fit where it is, after that moment of self-discovery.
Also, perhaps most importantly of all, I think this is the first time I’ve really seen you nail the landing. Endings have been a weak point for you, but not here. This story works. It ends at just the right point. It’s not off-balanced by having a long, strong start and then a short, weak end. There’s balance.
There’s not much else I can say.
Richard Dawkins chooses to believe that the man totally got his head dunked in the toilet by a mad man who was trying to get rid of his truck because it had drugs in, though.
Injin’s story had promise but had some problems. Ink’s story just worked, no matter how bizarrely and unexpectedly. I’m giving the point to Inkdrinker.
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