Saturday, December 4, 2010

Chapter 1

Coastal Georgia, Summer 1979

The sun hung low over the rippling marsh grass, painting the cracked asphalt highway with golden light.  The road was quiet save for the uneven rumble of the Impala’s engine as the beat-up sedan snaked along the highway curves.

Richie didn’t appreciate the simple beauty of the Southern afternoon as he guided the car northward along this back road.  He had the windows down and the radio cranked up, his shaggy hair streaming with the breeze.  But he didn’t see the road or hear the wind or the music.  His mind was consumed with dark thoughts of the inevitable.

He was trying to come to terms with his decision.  Hell, he couldn’t even really call it a decision – it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.  He was at the end of the line:  tired, broke, and lost.  The last few months had been brutal; it was as if he had endured hard lifetime in their span. 

Richie couldn’t believe he felt so old at nineteen.

He blinked back disappointed tears as he stared through the dirty windshield.  It was time to let go of the delusion that he would ever make it as a musician.  Time to man up, to go back home to Jersey and take a Union job at the factory like his Old Man.  Time to find a nice girl, settle down, have a few kids, and live a life of quiet desperation until he dropped dead.  Richie had tried college; it wasn’t for him.  He was a blue-collar guy, and now he would live a blue-collar life. 

He had been a fool to ever think he could make a living playing his guitar, let alone that it would ever make him a star.

As the old car rambled down the road Richie’s mind drifted back, replaying his life as he struggled to accept his future.  Soon bittersweet memories would be all he had left of his dream.

From the time he strummed his first chord he was in love.  Richie had learned music at a tender age, a student of the piano and accordion.  A couple years ago he put down the squeezebox and picked up a six-string, and discovered the magic. 

Richie never needed a lesson; he just started to play along with the radio and his record collection.  He found he could express himself better through melodies and rhythms than he ever could with words.  His talent for music didn’t hurt when it came to getting girls, either.  Though he was a gregarious and athletic teen who was friendly with everyone, he was for some reason shy when it came to the fairer sex. 

Unless he had a guitar in his hands.  Then he was confident and cool.  Then he was The Man.

Throughout high school Richie jammed with other like-minded guys, and he had played in several bands.  None of them really went anywhere so upon graduation Richie fulfilled his promise to his mother and enrolled in the local community college. 

College was basically a means to an end; a way to meet more girls and other musicians.  It was also an excuse not to get a full-time job.  But Richie’s heart wasn’t in his studies, and he knew after his first semester of mediocre grades that he wouldn’t be going back.

After dropping out of college Richie spent the next few months working part-time jobs and playing and writing as much as he could.  He spent nights and weekends down the Jersey Shore, hanging out at the clubs in Asbury and Seabright and soaking up the atmosphere. He tried out for several regional bands, but his youth and inexperience always overshadowed his talent.  Richie shopped his songs to every singer he could, but his talent for songwriting was ignored.  All anyone could see was a nice young kid with potential… just not enough potential to take a chance on.

As Richie became increasingly frustrated with the reality of life after high school his creativity withered.  Though his playing was still technically sound, its soul faded.  Discouraged with his inability to get anyone to listen to his music, Richie decided a change of scenery was in order.

He scraped together as much money as he could, loaded up his P.O.S., kissed his mother and shook hands with his father, then headed south.  Away from Jersey.  Away from the walls he had been beating his head against for months.  Toward someplace – any place -- that would spark his creativity once again and give him a chance to make it as a guitar player.

In his beat-up old Impala Richie wandered through the Carolinas, then turned west toward Tennessee.  Feeling a need to be part of something with soul, Richie rolled into Memphis.  He paid homage to The King then spent a couple months begging for session work at the studios by day and catching gigs in the Beale Street blues clubs by night. 

Somehow Richie managed to make enough money to keep gas in his tank and food in his belly.  He crashed on floors and couches of guys he met jamming, caught naps in the studio after sweeping up and taking out the trash, or slept in his car.  He drank, he got high, he scored with a few chicks, and he played until his fingers were raw.  But still he felt like he had nothing to say, no stories to tell.  His pen stayed silent while his guitar eked out his survival.

Finally, after yet another failed audition and no further session work on the horizon, Richie realized it was time to leave Memphis.  But he couldn’t go home yet.  He just couldn’t.  Heading south again, he drifted through Tupelo, then across Alabama and Georgia, living The Blues. 

Finally he reached Florida.  One moonlit night Richie drove the Impala right onto the beach and sat staring at the Atlantic, searching for his muse, for the soul of his music that had drifted a little further away with every failed audition and with every door slammed in his face.

After awhile he realized it was over.  It was time to go back home, to the life he was meant to lead.

The next day he pointed the Impala north and crawled along the old highway skirting the coast.  With each passing mile Richie felt like he was on a march to his doom.  In less than a weekend he would be back in Jersey.  Back where he belonged.

A loud rattle jolted Richie from his brooding.  The steering wheel jerked under his hands as the Impala’s engine coughed and whined.  “Fuck!” Richie swore from behind clenched teeth as he stomped on the accelerator.  “C’mon, Dammit!”

The battered car didn’t heed his curses, its momentum slowing despite repeated prods from Richie’s boot.  Steam began to seep from under the hood as the engine sputtered, then silenced.  “No, no NO, GodDAMNit!” Richie cursed as he guided the car to the side of the road before stomping on the brake and angrily throwing the transmission into park.

Slumping back against his seat, Richie angrily smacked the steering wheel with the heels of his hands.  “You piece of shit,” he growled at the Impala before dropping his head back and staring morosely up at the dirty blue fabric of the interior roof.  Fuck.  This can NOT be happening, he thought miserably as he listened to the boiling hiss of the overheated engine.  It’s already the worst damned day of my life.

Richie seethed for a long moment, then sighed and pulled his head upright.  Yanking hard on the handle, he kicked open the heavy door and unfolded his lanky frame from the seat.  Richie moved to the front of the car and raised the hood, quickly jumping back to avoid being scalded by the steam that came billowing out from the engine compartment.  “Shit, this don’t look good,” he mumbled sullenly.

Pulling a grungy red bandana from his jeans pocket, Richie wrapped the fabric around his hand before reaching toward the radiator.  He carefully grasped the small cap and twisted, turning his face away as another hiss emitted from the engine with the loosening of the seal.  Giving the steam a moment to escape, Richie removed the cap and looked into the reservoir.  His smooth brow furrowed with his frown as he saw that it was partially filled with water.

That can’t be good, Richie thought, realizing the problem with his engine was probably more than a mere overheat.  His gut tightened as he wondered what he was going to do if a major fix was needed.  He barely had enough money for gas and food.  He certainly couldn’t afford an engine repair.

Richie rounded to the back of the car and dug a tool bag out of the trunk while he waited for the engine to cool.  Once the steam had dissipated he ducked back under the hood and poked around, checking hoses and wires for leaks or disconnects.  He couldn’t find any obvious, easily-corrected problem.

Fuck.  That meant it was a bad part of some sort.  And that meant money.  Money he didn’t have.

With a soft groan of despair Richie straightened and ran a greasy hand through his hair.  He stared at the engine for a moment, then stepped back and slammed the hood down.  He didn’t have a choice.  He was going to have to hike back to the town he had just passed through and try to find a garage.  His beat-up Impala wasn’t going anywhere right now, least of all with him in it.

Richie sighed wearily and tossed the tool kit back into the trunk, then hauled out his dirty olive-drab ruck.  Slinging the canvas bag over his shoulder, he slammed the trunk shut and stepped up to yank open the sedan’s door.  Richie pushed the seat forward and roughly withdrew a battered brown case from the back seat, banging it against the door frame.  The guitar inside let out a muffled twang as it jostled against its container.

Dropping the guitar case and rucksack onto the cracked pavement, Richie cranked the handle to roll up the window before locking the car door and shoving it shut.  He turned and slumped back against the rusty blue sedan, blowing out a frustrated breath.  Glancing at his watch, he saw it was almost five o’clock. 

Just fucking perfect, Richie thought.  By the time he hiked back to town and found a garage or service station it would probably be closed.  After all, it was late Friday afternoon and this was the Middle of Nowhere, Georgia.  But what choice did he have?  He couldn’t sit out here on the side of this deserted road and hope the car’s engine would magically roar to life.

With another muttered curse Richie slung his ruck over his shoulder, picked up his guitar case, and started walking.

*****

Well, I'm a standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona 
Such a fine sight to see 
It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford
Slowin' down to take a look at me 

Come on, baby, don't say maybe 
I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me 
We may lose and we may win
Though we will never be here again 
So open up, I'm climbin' in 
Take it easy 

She sang softly along with the Eagles tune on the radio, drumming her fingers against the old Ford pickup’s steering wheel.  Annabelle wasn’t in any particular hurry to get where she was going; there wouldn’t be any customers at the restaurant yet anyway. 

Annie wasn’t supposed to work tonight, but Sadie had begged her to trade shifts so Sadie could go to a concert in Savannah with some friends.  Not having any such exciting plans, Annie agreed. So, she had enjoyed a leisurely afternoon before heading for the town’s only restaurant at quarter of five.

As the song ended and recap of the day’s news began Annie reached over to twist the dial to change the station.  She frowned slightly as she fiddled with the knob, dropping her gaze from the road to the radio’s display.  When she raised her eyes again she saw something unexpected.  About a half-mile ahead was a battered blue sedan parked on the shoulder of the road.  Beyond the car someone was walking down the road, carrying something.

“Now who could that be?” Annabelle murmured thoughtfully.  She rarely saw a car on this winding back road at this time of day, and she certainly didn’t recognize this one.  As she neared the vehicle she noticed the unfamiliar license plate.  She slowed the truck and squinted at the tag as she passed, but couldn’t discern the state of issue through the thick layer of dirt and grime. 

Annie’s gaze was drawn ahead to the person walking along the road.  As she pulled closer she saw the wanderer was a tall, thin young man with shaggy dark hair and long legs.  From one hand swung a battered brown guitar case, and an army-surplus rucksack was slung over his opposite shoulder.  A dingy white t-shirt topped ripped, faded bell-bottom jeans and scuffed brown cowboy boots.  The Wanderer obviously heard the vehicle’s approach, for he stopped and turned toward the sound, extending an arm with a thumb pointed southward, in the direction of town.

Richie breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the white pickup truck slow in response to his gesture.  This was the first vehicle to happen along this road in the half hour he had been stuck here.  Hopefully some Good Samaritan would give him a ride into town, for he had no idea how long the walk would be.  He hadn’t exactly been paying attention when he drove through the little town earlier.

Pulling the truck even with the hitchhiker, Annie stepped on the brake.  “Hey there,” she called through the open passenger-side window.  “You goin’ to town?”  She gave the young man a friendly grin.

Richie was surprised to hear the feminine voice as he ducked his head to look through the window.  He had automatically assumed the pickup truck’s driver would be male.  Instead he found himself looking at a pretty, smiling blonde girl.

“Yes ma’am,” Richie answered.  He immediately felt strange.  He had no idea what had inspired him to call this very obviously young woman “Ma’am.”  Maybe it was her warm Southern drawl or her pretty blue eyes.  Whatever the reason, despite his dark mood a little smile curved Richie’s lips.

“Well, hop on in.” 

3 comments:

  1. Looks like the worst day of his life just might turn out to be the best day!

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  2. I can't wait until the next chapter!

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  3. Well, I am really really happy there's a new Richie story out!! :) I second the comment above; I can't wait till there's a new chapter, either! Sounds interesting so far. :)

    And I don't know why, but your line about "live a life of quiet desperation" made me think about that Pink Floyd song "Time", lol... "Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way"... That song lyric was the first thing that went off in my head when I saw your words "quiet desperation", lol. :)

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