Dormant (II) (497 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 2 on 6 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by r0fl (View user info) at 2006-02-15 10:44:28 EST
Part I
http://www.ubersite.com/m/83818
Charles Finn was a late bloomer. It wasn't until King Middle School that he actually had a friend besides his mother.
His parents were protective of their little Charles. He was the epitome of shyness at King Elementary on Deering Ave, and when later asked about him, one of his teachers still couldn't believe he was involved in that fiasco. His parents thought nothing of the fact that it wasn't until 6th grade before he brought someone home to play after school.
Blossom wouldn't be the right word however; he merely spoke out and actually stood up for someone far smaller than he being bullied. Big Gus Thompson was in his third shot at 6th grade, and was a gargantuan to his peers.
Charles took a lickin' that day, but he made his first friend. They were actually the best of friends throughout their respective tenures at King until little David Jacobsen moved with his family to Cape Elizabeth Town the summer before their freshman year of high school.
The principal was a big baseball fan (loved the Sea Dogs) and tried to relate school issues with it. He could often be heard lecturing Gus on his "third strike" for sixth grade at King.
Charles mainly kept to himself. If his classmates were to describe him, they'd probably only mention his thick Coke-Bottle glasses that were always slipping down the bridge of his nose. His hair was longer and mangy compared to the crew-cut style worn then. It would actually become the style later in the late 60's, but he didn't care. His average frame barely carried through the linoleum halls. He dragged his feet.
He joined the Track & Field team his sophomore year and ran the hurdles and threw the javelin. Actually would have set the school record for longest throw four times, but he always faulted. Despite his awkward athleticism he generally was not accepted. The popular kids had the Nehru jackets, and he had his father's handmedowns.
Without friends and being accustomed to a lack of distractions besides the jav, he excelled in high school and graduated Salutatorian and was admitted to the University of Maine-Orono in '55. Coulda threw the javelin too, but refused.
His literary beginnings included that of idolizing Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (also from his hometown of Portland) and modeling his poetry and literary style after him.
Eventually his unwillingness to expand into social circles caused him to be untrusting to everything around him. His majored changed; he migrated into the school of Journalism, and set out to change the world uncovering conspiracies and frauds.
He wanted to take on the Gus Thompson's of the world. And maybe give some licks for a change instead of taking 'em.
"Fuckin' A," Charles groaned, as he hastily knotted his tie around his half buttoned shirt. He swallowed two black cups of Folgers and searched for his keys. His right heel wasn't in his shoe, which happened more often than not. The shoe leather itself gave into his weight and was permanently creased.
He found them by the nightstand, aside his blinking alarm clock. Must've been a power surge, and the clock reset. Shit. He descended the stairs of his building, knocking on the door to his landlord, Mr. Carter. Ole Carter was a heavy sleeper, and Charles figured he'd let him know about the circuit breakers in the basement. Nobody answered after 2 minutes, and Charles was already going to be late.
The engine turned and all the gauges lit up. Gravel crunched under the auto's gravity as he backed out and turned onto Atlantic Ave. He noticed the gas gauge 1/8 full. He reluctantly pulled into Union St. filling station and handed the attendant George Ashland a handful of crumpled green.
"Missed a button there Chuck," he chimed.
Charles adjusted the rear-view mirror, agreed, and thanked him.
"Keep the change George, I'm running late. I'll see ya later. Sox playing tonight?"
"Yeah Chuck, take care. Playin' the final game against Cleveland. They've won the last three, last night 6-5."
The Chevrolet rocketed down US-1 as Charles lit his third L & M of the day and inhaled the smoke. The whole Chevy smelled of it, as during the commute from
Boothbay Harbor to Phippsburg one county over his breakfast was entirely caffeine and nicotine.
He worked one of the Maine Times buildings, a liberal alternative to newspapers. It was a natural fit for Charles.
In between puffs and him re-buttoning his shirt while steering, he barely noticed the Chevy creeping towards 80 miles an hour. At least he noticed the blues and reds in his rear-view in lieu of his first speeding ticket.
"Fuckin' A," he groaned, this time louder.
His put his car back in gear and coasted for a ways, and then stepped on the gas to get him to work. He turned onto 209 and rode into town, noting how alive the town was in the summertime. His radio crackled. Shit hasn't worked in almost two years.
"Boss'll understand," he mumbled aloud again, wishing he had some tunes in the Chevy.
It was almost 10:30 in the morning, almost two hours late.
When he got stressed out he often drifted back to days life was much simpler, back at University, back in poetry with Longfellow. He'd often quote by memory his favorite lines to calm him down.
"The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveler hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls."
He began to look for a spot for the Chevrolet for the day when he almost hit a bunch of kids in three-quarter sleeves heading across the street. All the shirts were the same, some blue, some red. One of the older ones had a 4 on his back. All the others were blank.
He settled into the office and kissed Mr. Irwin's ass until he felt like he should brush his teeth. He settled into his desk, reviewing leads for the day of June 26th, 1963, and picked up the phone to call Mr. Carter again. He was a good guy, always fixed anything that was broken.
No answer.
Nobody noticed a man the night before walking down Lobster Cove Road in the rain, and then stop at Charles's building. He asked Good Ole Carter if he could come in to use his phone to call for a tow, seemed he rolled his pick-up down Summit St in a ditch.
Nobody ever found any abandoned car on Summit St.
And Mr. Carter was never seen alive again.
User Reviews
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-03-23 14:45:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-03-23 13:01:38 (#)
Ranking: 2
i seriously think you should be getting more hits/reviews than this.
awful to see a post with actual effort put into it, by someone with talent getting nada.
o well, how it goes i guess.
I've accepted it. As long as it's on the board, I'll garner hits. But there isn't any name recognition, so I'll max out around 300 per post intially.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-03-23 13:01:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
i seriously think you should be getting more hits/reviews than this.
awful to see a post with actual effort put into it, by someone with talent getting nada.
o well, how it goes i guess.
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2006-03-14 01:38:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very well written fiction should be rewarded more around here. I'm sorry that I didn't see these when they first came out.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-02-28 20:21:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
172 hit and only two people with balls enough to rate.
Gutless fucks...
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-02-15 23:29:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Compulsory (user info) at 2006-02-15 16:28:43 (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm surprised no one else has been here. I thought this was very well written; very interesting. I'm looking forward to where you'll go with it.
Meh, I'm getting used to it. This story'll probably be longer than Gill or The Passenger, so I don't think many people will stick it out to the end. Lemme know what you think of part III.
Submitted by Compulsory (user info) at 2006-02-15 16:28:43 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm surprised no one else has been here. I thought this was very well written; very interesting. I'm looking forward to where you'll go with it.