Other Works in Progress
What follows are sample chapters from a few of my other projects. They have yet to face the critical eye of an editor so consider them drafts.
THE HIGH WATER MARK - LONG JOURNEY HOME - Sample Chap One
CHAP 1 BRIDGE TO NOWHERE
A portion the F J Torras Causeway vanished into a veil of gray haze. The lift-span bridge that stretched over the Frederica and MacKay Rivers of the Intercostal Waterway sat empty. The nearest lift span, stuck and impassable, perched high above the river when the operator had raised the section to let a tall ship pass. Cars were parked along the causeway headed for the defective span, their occupants frustrated in their attempt to flee by decree of mandatory evacuation.
The shrimp docks on the edge of the golden marsh bordered by smooth cord grass leaned in the breeze. Captains and mates prepared their fishing boats to get underway to a hurricane hole or safe harbor. Boats large and small, powered and not, jostled in the bluster and noise of the turbulent air and water at St. Simons and Epworth Marinas. They tugged at their moorings like a disobedient dog against the leash. The whole scene consumed by a slate-gray turbulent wash.
“This is my seventh journey to this island. I didn’t realize it’d be my last.”
“Now Jack, I’ve told you, don’t worry about it man.”
“Beans, I swear if I ever get out of this alive, I’m going back to the mountains and take up basket weaving,” Jack said and sighed. “Hell, I can’t do anything about it now. I should’ve left when I had a chance. The crap you get me into Beans. I should have known better than to let you talk me into anything against my better judgement.”
“Ah, it’s no big deal man. Remember, Rick and Steve were a part of that central planning committee. Listen, later we can go back to the village. The people still left on the island go down there in times like these. Then tomorrow we can go to Garth’s house, it will be a big ole time from what I’ve heard a group of my friends plan to go.”
“Yeah,” Jack said rubbing the side of his face.
The two young men huddled next to a black 1975 Chevrolet Monte Carlo in the pull out next to the confluence of Demere Road and Kings Way on Gascoigne Bluff. The great salt marsh lay between Brunswick and St. Simons Island Georgia shrouded by a dull gray mist. One of them sat on the four-year-old car’s hood, his feet perched on the front bumper, and elbows on knees, his hands supported his head. With pursed lips, he wiggled his mouth from side to side as if he pondered a strange piece of contemporary art. He was built like a running back, topped out at five eleven and a half. He projected the intensity of a firefighter or a commando about blow up half of Singapore Harbor.
The other, the taller of the two stood at six feet two, his hands in his front pockets, the robust wind pressed his poncho against his body which outlined his wiry features. He was devilishly hansom, like a formula one racer who strolled down pit lane in Circuit de Monaco. Surrounded by the beautiful people, international models and tycoons, captains of magnificent luxury ships and fellow racers. He had an esprit that washed over his face and radiated from his eyes. Both looked across the Frederica River and the vast salt marsh toward the mainland. Their options limited. Their futures uncertain.
“Come on Jack. No use mulling over it. These troubles happen whether providential or natural depending how you look at things like this. I mean… choices result in positive or negative consequences. I think it best to go with it, believe in the reason Jack. It may turn out to be something far greater than you ever imagined.”
“Easy for you to say, whatever you said. Ever since you came back from Europe you been going on like a weird mystic,” Jack massaged the back of his neck. “Besides you lived with these things all the time. After I saw those awful news reports, I’m skeptical of all this. We might have been better staying in Daytona,” Jack said.
“They threw us out remember.”
“Oh, yeah.” Jack wrinkled his brow, “How much time we have left?”
“This time tomorrow might be exciting. Know this, after every tempest comes calms.”
Beans was Dean Hunter Spalding III. His Savannah family has been connected to St. Simons since the 1930s while on vacation. His aunt bought a second home on the island about five years ago. Dean pursued a doctorate degree, but he left his career options open. The other young man was Jack Conroy a friend from college who spoke often about joining the Army to finance a master’s degree.
“Well Jack, you can always swim. Unless you have developed the ability to walk on water. Too bad Moses is dead, he’s had the proper skill set for situations like this, raising his staff and parting the Red Sea and all. Except the island is low on Egyptians this time year.”
Jack shook his head at Dean and shuffled back to the car.
Road Trip
A week earlier, Jack and Dean began this bizarre journey from Statesboro, a small college town two hours northwest where the boys matriculated at Georgia Southern College (now a University). They had wrapped up a quiet summer quarter. August had been steamy and oppressive hence they reasoned it wise to uncork in Daytona Beach, a premiere Floridian destination spot for this sort of thing. Spring break is the zenith of the Daytona experience but a skilled partisan can achieve nirvana during “off peak”. They had come to this conclusion after several rounds at the Hops Brew Pub, a low-key saloon and pool hall that sat next to the highway that led into the outskirts of Statesboro. The site hosted a myriad such strategy sessions.
“I don’t know; I need to spend time at home.” Jack said, as he spun his mug.
“Aw come on. It’ll be a good time.” Dean looked at his friend, “besides, you have little time left man. I think it’s good to blow it out in the capital of debauchery.”
Jack brought the mug to his lips, took a thoughtful drink, and twisted his mouth around, “I can’t argue much against that.” Jack glanced around the bar, “okay, for old times’ sake then.”
“That a boy.”
They toasted their decision and queried the other patrons that enjoyed The Hops if they wished to join their expedition but there were no takers. Dean and Jack were on their own, this required strict inspection in regard to their combined assets.
It took little effort to convince Dean and Jack to make the five-hour drive to the dark Valhalla next to the ocean. The requirements were time, a tank of gas and a hundred dollars between the two and that sum was negotiable.
“How’s your cash?” Dean asked.
“I’m golden for five or six nights, you?”
“That’s a stretch if for me, but let’s do it! I need to get the hell out of this cow town anyway. You know me Jack, I always have the itch to travel somewhere. Like a wandering Bedouin, forty days and a camel.”
“A camel?”
“Yeah, wander off into some rat hole desert with a goddam burning cross in my hands.”
“You’re crazier than two loons,” Jack said.
Dean added one final straw that solidified the decision, “And another thing, I need to retrieve my car from the house on the island. I’ve tooled around the ‘boro on my old reliable motorcycle all summer. But damn man, those last few summer thunderstorms convinced me time had come to upgrade to transportation that includes a roof and windows!” Dean thought for a moment, “I about wrecked on a nasty ride from Atlanta while I barreled through an afternoon squall. We can swing by the island on the way back from Florida so I can get my car.”
“Yeah that will be all right; I hadn’t been to St. Simons in a while.” Jack said.
“We could catch up with Rick and Steve.” Dean suggested.
“Oh yeah. Those two still on that boat?”
“Yep, they have it fixed up too. They hope to charter it next spring.”
“Sure you can afford this?” Jack asked.
“If I don’t spend too much in bars I’ll be okay. That’s where the money goes. Plus, it off-peak so we can score good deals. It won’t be as crazy as spring break.”
One time
the boys experienced an epic windfall that bankrolled an extended trip two springs ago. Their good fortune resulted from what they and others initially observed as tragic. It all happened when they drove their respective cars from a Statesboro watering hole, Jack failed to negotiate a turn, in both approach speed and angle of attack and careened into Dean’s Toyota which sent Dean and his pint-sized car into the adjacent ditch. Both parties survived except for Dean’s right hand that transferred the force of the blow to the dash panel. After the legal proceedings had run their course, Dean took the meaty insurance payout and bought a replacement door from a junkyard instead from the suggested import dealer who had bullish tendencies when it involved matters of price and profit ratios. A fraternity brother arranged a paint job at a steeply discounted rate and Dean saved close to a grand. Hence, in short order, through the help of slick friends that returned the car to its original sub-pristine condition for a quarter of the estimated cost. To celebrate this bit of providence, the boys embarked on a lengthy tour of Florida attractions.
Weeks passed before anybody in Statesboro saw them again after this lucky turn of events. Jack talked nervously about Jacksonville from time to time and his experience with Floridian judicial system. On other less well-funded trips, they now and then slept in Jack’s hulking Chevrolet, in a poolside chaise lounge or the beach. Although these last two arrangements carried with them the threat of a middle-of-the-night roust by management or law enforcement. More often than not, the boys found themselves in the comfort of a room tenanted with coeds from Alabama or secretaries from Duluth on vacation. It was a different time, people got away with nefarious behavior back then, but there’s always a price to pay.
“Stacy wants to visit soon. I dunno man. I don’t know,” Dean said as he pushed back a stir in his gut and ran his hand through his hair.
“Hell son, you can’t do any better than her. If you hadn’t gotten to her first, I might have.” Jack sucked in his lower lip. He decided to leave well enough alone.
“I know Jack, it’s that I… well, she… we… it began to escalate too fast. I’m not sure I’m ready for serious relationship.” Dean returned his gaze to the lofty southern pines that sped across his view. A pang of guilt churned in his gut. He forced himself to think forward, to the next few days and not dwell on Stacy. Dean said in a soft voice, “I’m not Gatsby Jack, I can’t reinvent myself; I suppose I never will.”
The boys crossed the Georgia Florida line without incident or much reverie; after all, they have made this trip numberless times. Their disposition picked up precipitously after they cleared the Jacksonville’s southern city limits. Indeed, the boys were headed back to town.
At the exit to Palm Coast, the Marshall Tucker cassette had worn out its welcome. Dean switched to the radio and picked up a local pop station out of Daytona.
“It is time for some beach music, Jacko.”
At the top of the hour, they heard the first reports in relation to Hurricane David. Media, dispatched out of the Dominican Republic, told of a powerful hurricane churning its way through the Caribbean on a predominately westerly tract. Death tolls unknown. This path would take it south of the dual-nation island, nonetheless, the citizens of Santo Domingo City made desperate preparations, 150 mile an hour winds are not to be trifled with.
“It will run up into the Gulf, maybe slow up some over Cuba, or make land fall on the Yucatan Peninsula.” Dean said with authority. He had lived near the ocean all his life and that gave him a certain laissez-faire attitude with these yearly annoyances.
“Uh huh, hope you’re right.” Jack said. “Say when did they start naming these things for guys?” Jack demanded, put back.
“This year, at least in the Atlantic. Guess someone at the World Meteorological Organization thought they ran out of girl names or grew weary of the six-year rotation that used the same names. Plus, the woman’s groups were in a snit about it, guess you can’t blame them much. Don’t you remember Hurricane Bob back in July, a Gulf storm? That was the first one I think.”
“Hmm. You know too damn much Beans.” Jack rotated his hand on the steering wheel and sipped his beer. “You’re probably right though,” he said, “I hope it heads into the Gulf.” Jack drove in silence for a mile or so. “I don’t know man. I have seen pictures; you know news footage of hurricanes. Big waves crashing into the coast and boats elbowing or flat out sinking. Big palm trees twisting in powerful winds like they were weeds,” Jack gestured with his hand.
“Bah, those are monster category four or five storms. We will get ample warning if something like that starts to brew and churn our way… I mean, it is a cat five now but let run through those islands. Then we’ll see.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Jack, I have seen crazy surfers on ridicules waves then disappear into a crashing walls of white death. Then pop out again. Wild dudes. Veteran seaside folks don’t spook easy. Trust me,” Dean said the last part mimicking a southern country lawyer.
“What about floods and marooned people waving in desperation from rooftops at helicopters and stuff. I mean that looks terrifying,” Jack said and squirmed in his seat.
“Flooding becomes the biggest problem and that occurs further inland from all the rain the storm dumped. That’s what gets people into trouble because flooding occurs after the storm passed. Still, I don’t think we have anything to worry about Jack.”
“I hope so Beans.”
They arrived in Daytona a few minutes after 4:00 PM. The main drag crawled with motorcycles, fat Harley’s piloted by big mustachioed men adorned with bandanas and bitches. The avenue filled with gaggles of young drunks, preppies in golf shirts, sunglasses on top of their heads, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, scurrying across each intersection. Cars filled with girls that sang at the top of their lungs to Lodo or Hotel California. Jack and Dean observed the party parade from the quiet confines of the air-conditioned Chevrolet. Earlier high-siding along the peaceful marshes of the low country and coastal plain was a bucolic memory compared to the maelstrom of Daytona’s Atlantic Avenue. A culture of neon and relentless glitz a shock to the system that took a while to overcome.
“We need to switch into party gear.” Jack said.
“Let’s try that place. I stayed there once with Stacy,” a pang of guilt and loneliness swept through Dean. He finished the last quarter of his beer in one long drink. Wiping his mouth with back of his hand, “Ah, it was warm anyway.”
Jack whipped into the parking lot of the International Inn. They had no vacancies but the Silver Dollar down the street offered poolside rooms on the second floor. By 5:00 PM the boys were encamped. After a coin flip, Jack won the right of first refusal to shower, which he exercised. Dean unpacked and tuned his guitar. He limped out onto the spacious balcony, his ankle stiff from the long hours in the car. Cars paraded along the beach below. Hundreds of people milled about in various stages of dress and decay, some will not be among the counted for tonight’s activities. Rookies, Dean thought, you must pace yourself, experience being the mother of wisdom.
Dean sat down to strum his guitar. He played a warm up ritual he had written. The air conditioner hummed along in the background. He then played Devils Dream and what phrases he remembered of Salt Creek, both old bluegrass standards that he played on his banjo most of the time. His fingers warm and loosened, Dean launched into Train Leaves Here This Morning.
In the middle of his private recital, Dean heard the sliding glass door from the next balcony over, opening with a sandy scrape. He stopped singing but kept playing. A smallish hand which grasped a plastic cup appeared an arm followed and then a brunette head attached to a country face comely by any criterion, the synthetic vertical curtain strips slapped behind her.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” said Dean.
“I’m Janet,” Another girl followed her onto the balcony and leaned against the rail. “This is my friend Katie.” Katie waved.
“I’m Dean Spalding from Georg
ia.”
“We’re from Ohio. You can call me Jan.”
Daytona
Daytona Beach was noise, light, stale beer, wide sunny beaches, nostalgia, and sorrow. Daytona was cars, bars, hotel rooms, public baths, pools, burger joints, and pancake houses packed with fanatical drunk youth. Miles of hotels, beaten and battered from months of collegiate reverie, sex, drugs, and pillow fights, sometimes without the pillows. Anything goes in Daytona and everything is for sale. Twice a year, the good old boys drove their supped up metal steeds with fiery anus, took over the town. Same behavior but with different carnage.
Its inhabitants are transient students and those that prey upon them. They own no stake in the fortunes and upkeep of the city except for the mild gamble of a room deposit or bondsman. They pack light, some even left their suitcases at home and brought their baggage. The locals who ran the place lived away from the main drag and ventured not into the make-believe inferno. Those who do are cops, maids, and clerks. Back in this period there existed an uneasy truce between law enforcement and the temporary citizenry. As long as things did not get too far out of hand the locals looked the other way or in the case of the cops moved things along. The area transmuted into absolute zoo from March through September with Spring Break the official pinnacle.
In Daytona’s heyday, there were two rules visitors were careful to follow. The first, J walking, in which you received some minor traffic citation but they take this offense with resolve. Commonsense dictated that a drunk who wandered down the middle of Atlantic Avenue was disruptive to the normal ebb and flow of the vehicle-pedestrian parley. Violation of standard rules of engagement costs a severe enough fine that the offending party must take extraordinary care of his or her hotel room ensuring full return of the damage deposit, without which, the accused party was left with insufficient funds for the return trip. Worthy of attention.
The second, the despicable crime of public lewdness in which the authorities’ slapped offender with an indecency rap. That in itself sounds somewhat harmless akin to a high school prank like say streaking down the main hall during homeroom, but it carried with it grim ramifications regarding one’s future. Not only do offenders receive three hots and a cot at Daytona’s publicly funded and fortified jail the charge tends to stick on the perp’s record. Try explaining a sex charge during a job interview. Do not piss on the beach least you run afoul of virtue jurisprudence with their goal of promoting higher moral standards. This concept difficult for college kids to grasp who wanted to whoop it up.
Romanticism and a Question of Attire
Dean laid his guitar in its well-travelled case and retrieved a battered notebook from his backpack. It was part journal part random thoughts in no discernible order, two sections capricious musings and arbitrary observations; it morphed into a personal chronicle of Dean’s unordered mind. He flipped pages until he found the desired passages.
Jack entered the room toweling his hair. “What ‘cha reading there Beans? Some of that hippie bullshit that nobody understands but you?”
“Hey Jack, there’re a couple of Bettys next door, sans escort. Man, they’re real prime filets.” Dean turned another page and ran his finger down the page and zeroed in on the appropriate phrase. “Here it is.” Dean turned around noticed Jacks clothing ensemble or lack thereof, “Umm Jack, you gonna wear that? I mean man that is a definite fashion risk.”
“Hey what’s wrong with it? Clean white T, some jeans and slaps. It’s my James Dean guise.” Jack said with a slight lisp, mimicking a feminine conversation as to attire. “Don’t wanna be like those Izod momma boys.”
Dean rummaged around in his suitcase, the organization of which fared no better than his notebook. “Here Jack wear this” and tossed a Hawaiian shirt that landed on Jack’s head, “At least you won’t appear like a hosier recently back from the salt mines.”
Jack slipped it on over the T-shirt. Buttoning was optional.
“Aw, the layered look, stylish, in a slob sorta way, that’s it, slob chic,” Dean said.
Jack lit a cigarette, “Shaddup, wha cha reading anyway?”
“I am searching for something deep and thoughtful to impress those girls next door. You know, so they think I’m a sensitive intelligent man.”
“Let me know how that turns out for ya’.” Jack retrieved a beer.
“Here it is,” Dean began reciting the passage, ‘The Valley Spirit never dies, its name the Mysterious Female. And the doorway of the Mysterious Female. It was the base from which Heaven and Earth sprang. It was there within us all the while; Draw upon it as you will, it never runs dry.’ Man, they’ll flop like caught fish on a hot pier after they hear that.”
“Beans, either way ahead of your time, or hippnoid from the 60’s, live for the moment man. Besides, you’d catch nothing but mullet with that nonsense.”
“Aw, grasshopper, one must get ready for the moment, and most fish are edible, they just need the proper preparation.”
Southern Comfort
Growing up in the south made one appreciate lonely dirt roads and fast cars at two in the morning. Bluegrass music and stock car racing were born here and so was Lester Maddox and George Wallace. Bluegrass was wrought in the smoky mountains of Appalachia when a cock-eyed hillbilly named Bill Monroe mixed old-time Scotch-Irish fiddle tunes with the mournful sound of Negro blues of the 1930's.
Stock car racing is also the fruit of this region. Around the time Monroe was creating a whole new style of music, the backwoods boys loaded the trunks of their high-powered cars with some of the finest fresh corn liquor around, intending to sell it to their clientele in places like Sleepy Hollow and Cripple Creek. Problem was the stuff was illegal, not necessarily because it killed people or made people blind, which was neither here or there, but because the government felt cheated out of taxes on the sale of the rot gut. So, to boast a successful and profitable hooch distribution organization, ‘shiners outran the relentless federal agents and corrupt fat sheriffs. These hotshot bootleggers tricked up their motors and beefed up their suspensions to deal with the twists and turns of the back roads. Often they loaded up with so much homemade booze that the rear end of their cars sagged and scraped the ground when hitting the slightest bump. Sending a shower of sparks and ripping off their bumpers. For the most part these boys didn't mind much if they lost a bumper to a good cause but sparks and moonshine are a lethal combination. Another drawback was the obvious tip off to The Law. Any gap-toothed redneck driving around in a "low rider" must be hauling shine.
To combat this undesirable flaw in their delivery system, the hill country boys replaced their stock suspension with heavy-duty shocks and leaf springs from an old pickup. They re-jetted their carburetors and stripped bare their exhaust systems. They tinkered with the timing and gear ratios and installed special camshafts. They even poured some of that corn liquor into their tanks which added giddy up in case there was trouble. With this type of setup their cars were quick, fast, and loud that negotiated any crooked obstacle a dirt road offered, leaving the hapless revenuer choking in a thick cloud of red dust. On a good day, these juice jockeys raked in hundreds of dollars in the bull-market of bootleg liquor. And in those days, that was a substantial supplement to their meager income of 23¢ an hour down at the pulp mill.
There wouldn't be any liquor runs on Sunday though; there are some laws that even juice jockeys didn’t break, and God's was high on that list. Sundays the good ole boys grabbed their girls and headed down to the horse track. Not to gamble on the steeds. Gambling was not allowed on Sunday in most counties, at least not in the open. They went there to race. To see who had the fastest car in the tri-county area. A subtle marketing scheme for the winner was rewarded the most hauls for the next week.
With its wide beaches, the resort became a haven for hot shots and partiers. It grew in Southern stature. Over time, morphing as the destination spot for the collegiate set looking for a good time after months of rigorous study.
Edenic Squa
lor
Fast cars, motorcycles, boats and airplanes still come to Daytona to test their mettle against peers but speed was not the only thing high. Jack and Dean sat out on the balcony, Jack with his feet propped up on the railing and Dean finger picking his guitar. They both contemplated the shore below and their first night in Florida. The Ohio girls were next door on their balcony chatting and smoking a pipe.
“You smell that sweet smoke drifting across Beans?”
“Yep, nice,” Dean took in a deep breath.
The sun was behind them and stirred the air with a light late afternoon breeze as the earth turned that delivered the sun to the other side of the world. There was less beach traffic as most had left, late stragglers gathered towels, coolers, chairs and other remnants of the day. The wide white beach dented by millions of footprints from the invasion. Tire tracks stretch into infinity in either direction. Seagulls hovered and floated on the wind in search of leftovers. Shadows of the hotels stretched out towards the water’s edge. The air was silent and the ocean still and at ebb before the waters receded back into the abyss. It was as if the whole scene took a deep breath before the lights came on.
“Sure is different than spring. Different crowd. Hell there’s even families,” Jack said and peered at their neighbors from Ohio. He gave a small wave and smiled. “I mean its Wednesday anyway, bound to be dead.”
“The eighteen to twenty-two crowd control spring break, Jack. We’re too old for all that nonsense. I like it better when it’s not so uptight, you know, the cops and managers. Marauding bands of out-of-control teenage mutant drunks,” Dean laughed. “Besides, anything can happen on a Wednesday.”
“Who you callin’ old?” Jack feigned an accusatory voice.
“Hi guys,” Jan called out. “Love your music Dean.”
“Hey Jan, Katie how are y’all?” Dean replied. Jack waved again.
“Y’all come on over if you want,” Jack offered. “We have plenty of munchies.”
“Nice move there Jack,” Dean said out of ear shot of the girls. “Munchies my ass,” he snickered.
The four of them grouped on the boy’s balcony exchanged the usual demographics found similar subjects of interest for discussion. With that out of the way Jan broke the banality with a suggestion.
“What are you guys doing for dinner?” She asked.
Jack and Dean exchanged glances and shrugged. They hadn’t given the concept of supper much thought. Furthermore, this subtle invitation presented a dilemma with both positive and negative consequences. The boys had not been in Dayton for more three hours and the Ohio girls, while attractive, they might tie them up for the duration of their visit. On the other hand, the girls appeared ready for a good time. Dean took the bait.
“Well,” Dean cleared his throat. “We didn’t plan on anything… Say… um since you said that y’all hadn’t been here before, how about we show ya’ a bit of the town?” Dean glanced at Jack but no read. “I know a good seafood joint that’s cheap.”
Thus the evening commenced. They drove around, pointed out various things and places the boys had visited or heard about. Dean gave a protracted background about the race track as they drove passed. They ate at a seafood joint near the pier and ended up at one of the arcades off the beach. Later they walked on the beach and returned to the boy’s room chatted and teased and laughed a lot. They watched Where the Boys Are, a movie based on a book written in 1958 from the pen of a Michigan State University English professor with the un-celebratory name of Glendon Swarthout. He had followed a group of his students to Florida to find out about this new set of teenage mating rituals. Professor Swarhtout whipped out a book titled Unholy Spring, which discoursed his observations in Ft. Lauderdale. The production studio made him retitle it and spring break was never the same since. After the movie the four quietly made love under the cover of the humming air-conditioner.
It was August 30 a Thursday night when the boys had a unique opportunity to witness typical Daytona spring break type action. A fraternity-sorority mixer was in full swing. The group was from the University of Texas stayed in the hotel next door and they had been at it since early this afternoon. Jack, Dean and the girls had met a few of them earlier that day on the beach. The boys had tossed a Frisbee around with a couple of them.
“Why don’t y’all come over later? We’re having a pool party in honor of a group of alumni that are in town,” one of them said to the foursome. “We’ll have a grill fired up and a couple of kegs.”
“We might do that,” Dean said without inflection or urgency. The Texans trotted off to their hotel.
“They seem nice,” Katie said.
Later that afternoon the four returned to their separate rooms to nap and recuperate from the day under the Florida sun.
Someone from the Texas contingent had arranged for a local beer distributor to preside over an impromptu swim suit and wet t-shirt contest, a phenomenon that had its start a few years ago at Pierre's Restaurant in Metairie, Louisiana, and soon became a spring break staple. The Texas event attracted a sizable crowd at the next-door hotel pool and patio. It became loud so the foursome decided to investigate.
“Huh, I don’t think so,” Katie said upon first impression.
“Nope. Me neither. I going to take a shower and get ready for tonight,” Jan also objected. “You two behave now.”
“See y’all in a bit,” Jack said.
The young contestants stood around at the back entrance to the hotel bar near the pool. The beer distributor in his role as Master of Ceremonies, leaned forward with eyes that glowed and talked in rapid staccato like an auctioneer. With microphone in hand, he introduced each girl and encouraged her to promenade for the judges who hooted and hollered, punctuated by whistles. Qualifications for judgeship was predicated on the amount of the distributor’s product applicants consumed.
One of the boys who wore a Longhorn T-shirt and cap sat on a second story balcony rail with his back to the action. The Texas student looked over his shoulder and provided commentary on the competition below, remarked on the contestant’s chances of success and offered advice on matters of poise and dress. He stood and broke into song with a lively performance of In the Garden of Eden. The student was lubed enough to slur out In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida correctly but left out the drum solo.
After his stunning performance of vocal intrusion, he returned to his previous position on the rail with a fresh cold beer and continued his commentary, his oblique posture leaning further from the vertical. The inebriate Texan lost his equilibrium and his will to remain upright. God, being the protector of drunks and the subjugated, arranged for the boy the foresight to hook his feet into the vertical supports. It was thusly that he hung upside down unable to right himself. His redden face dazed, cast an eye over the crowd with an upside down smile, his beer rained down on the contestants. After a momentary pause he regained his composure. The Texan continued his vocal accompaniment.
The beer distributor, fearing liability, summoned hotel management, whom in turn sought relief from the local constables. In the meantime, the dangling Texan experienced a second wind of sorts began singing The Eyes of Texas are Upon You to the beauties below after their unfortunate douse. This spectacular performance concluded when the police gained access to the room and hauled him up and over the rail. They escorted the Texan to the ground floor and told him to remain there for the duration and that any further similar activity would result in certain incarceration. Last seen, the Texan was reposed in a chaise lounge fast asleep.
“Bet he’s gonna have some sore ankles tomorrow,” Dean said.
“Looks like there already swelling up.”
The contest, had reached its logical conclusion, the beer distributer announced that a Kentucky girl with a minimalist swimsuit won.
“Hell yeah, I would have voted for her too,” Jack said.
“I’ll second that. I bet her momma didn’t buy her that bathing suit,” Dean said and smirked.
“H
a! Yeah, my handkerchief has more cloth than that.”
The boys ambled back toward their hotel as they strolled through the lobby; management and several patrons were listening to the local weather report. The weatherman stood in front of a graphic of the Caribbean islands and pointed to a hurricane symbol.
“Hurricane David is fast approaching the Dominican Republic with winds gusts of 170 miles an hour. Yesterday morning, hurricane David smashed into the tiny island of Dominica, killed thirty-two people and left eighty percent of the population homeless. The hurricane is expected to make landfall sometime within the next ten to twelve hours on the Southeastern Dominican shore. We’ll keep a close eye on this one. NHC still has not determined David’s projected path. Back to you Chet.”
The boys ignored the broadcaster’s grim voice and dour look and bounded up the stairs. Cars moved creeped down the beach among the Frisbee throwers and joggers. Serene and picturesque while over 600 miles to the south, raged a tempestuous monster.
OFF THE ROAD ON THE WAY - A WARTIME PILGRIMAGE – PROLOGUE
The Glienicke Bridge, Friday, June 15th, 1977, Midnight
With the scent of old river wafting through the air, and a thin rain diffusing the light from street lamps into starbursts, cars on either end faced off. Beams from their headlamps twirled through the mist like sideways tornados, accompanied by grumbling engines and the slap of windshield wipers.
On the east side, arms handcuffed behind him, stood an American Military Liaison officer. Beside him, the collar of his black trench coat turned up against the chill, a Russian KGB agent gripped the handle of his pistol and peered across the bridge. The American glanced up at the red aircraft warning light blipping atop the bridge tower, then turned his head toward his escort.
The KGB agent removed a chinking keychain from his coat pocket. Roughly unlocking the handcuffs, he stuffed them, and their key, back into his pocket.
The American rubbed his wrists, removed his narrow-brimmed trilby, and wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. He nodded, breath whistling through his teeth like a slow leak. The cloth disappeared back into his pocket.
“Remember what I told you.” The Russian gestured toward the liaison’s hands with his pistol. “No quick moves and keep your hands where I can see them.” His eyes narrowed at his silent captive. “You hear me Jim Spalding?!”
Spalding grunted in acknowledgment and raised his hands. “I’ve been listening to you for two long years, Sergio. Frankly, I hope to never hear your voice again.”
Sergio Kalugin returned his gaze across the bridge “I think it would be wise my friend, that we never meet again.” He lowered his chin. You’ll never make it off this bridge spy. A dour smirk crossed his face. You know too much.
Jim Spalding squinted west, the headlights of a large dark sedan shimmering and flickering through his muzzy vision. A slow smile crept across his face. He bounced on his toes and rounded back his shoulders like a boy about to receive a trophy. The Soviet pressed a pistol into his back prompting Spalding to glower over his shoulder at the Russian and raise his hands shoulder high, “Easy, easy Sergio. What do you think I’m going to do, run back into your vile country!”
Ignoring his charge, the KGB officer glanced over his shoulder at a boxy, hollowed out relic – a black 1970 Trabant. He locked gazes with the vehicle’s driver, nodding once. The driver took a drag off his cigarette, then flashed the lights.
The car on the west end flashed back.
Sergio jabbed the American with his pistol, then waved a hand toward the west end. “We go. Now.”
Jim Spalding huffed and took a step forward, his left knee sore while working two years of hard labor. The Russian fell in behind, revolver held steady at his prisoner’s back. “Move slowly, American.”
“Keep your shirt on, Comrade Kalugin.” I wonder if Gary Powers felt like this fifteen years ago. An eye in the sky spy for another spy, posing as a photographer. “We’re making history here Sergio”
“Move American!” Sergio pressed the gun harder into the agent’s back.
The Rhythm of the Stone – Collateral Damage Page 4
