Friday Night Write: Somewhere Down That Crazy River

5 Responses to Friday Night Write: Somewhere Down That Crazy River

1. 

   Mark Ethridge

   August 19, 2012 at 3:27 am

   http://mysoulstears.wordpress.com/2012/08/19/the-9th-friday-night-write-somewhere-down-that-crazy-river/
   499 Words

   @LurchMunster

2. Pingback: FNW – Somewhere Down That Crazy Road | Going for coffee…
3. 

   Jo-Anne Teal

   August 19, 2012 at 2:14 pm

   http://goingforcoffee.net/friday-night-write-somewhere-down-the-crazy-road/

4. 

   jtsuruoka

   August 19, 2012 at 8:54 pm

   Matty knocked back another shot of rotgut island rum and wiped the sweat off of his face with his sleeve.
   He grimaced at the sting on his cheeks and the outside corners of his eyes.
   His shirt was made for him by a women he'd gotten friendly with during his first month on the island and should have been soft with wear but it rubbed him raw every time he mopped his face.
   The ceiling fan labored but the hot air near the ceiling wouldn't be moved.
   Matty slammed the shot glass down on the bar.
   “Un otro, Antonio,” he barked at the bartender. Two years in country his Spanish still wasn't any good bur he could order a drink.
   Antonio, a wide, white-haired man in a canvas shirt and a pair of Buddy Holly eyeglasses, shambled over with his arms crossed in front of him.
   “All right, Antonio. All right.”
   Matty reached into his pants pocket and dropped a handful of crumpled notes on the bar. The money represented most of what he had left.
   Antonio retrieved a grimy bottle from beneath the bar and poured the shot.
   Matty raised the glass in salute and put it down untasted.
   Antonio returned to his newspaper at the other end of the bar.
   None of the handful of other drinkers sitting around the bar looked up to note the transaction.
   The early-birds at Antonio's were either old, broken, or both. Few of them favored him with a glance, let alone a word. He knew they were aware of him though. More than once he'd overheard the word, 'gringo', in conversation around him.
   He knew he had to move again, further inland, and the thought made him sick. His days of hustling tourists on the beaches where the air smelled of suntan lotion, money, and pussy were far behind him.
   Those were good days.
   Matty drank off his rum and waited for Pedro to show up.
   Pedro, a little man with a crew cut and more tattoos than Matty had ever seen on one body, was his ticket out. He was one of those guys who knew people and made a living at getting fugitives out of jams.
   He'd been easy to find and Matty thought the price he quoted for passage was reasonable. It was a lot less reasonable when Pedro showed up two days later with a big grin and a newspaper clipping in hand.
   Matty was about to try to wheedle another shot out of Antonio when Pedro arrived.
   He stopped in the doorway and motioned for Matty to join him outside.
   “It's all set,” said Pedro. “You gotta go down the river.”
   “What's down the river?”
   “Another town. Another man who will help you. We must go now. There is a boat.”
   Matty looked around and nodded. “Let's go.”
   As they walked, Pedro thought about the bounty hunter waiting downriver. It was turning out to be a most profitable partnership.
   499 words
   @JTsuruoka

5. 

   Bullish

   August 19, 2012 at 8:58 pm

    

   The red neon sign shimmered across the wet asphalt, beckoning my dry and dusty soul like a water mirage in the desert.

   I put my hand on the door, but before I could push through, the sound of a blues guitar fluttered down the street and wormed its way into my ear.

   Moments later, a voice behind me said, “Why do you always end up at Nick’s Café? You know I don’t work there anymore.”

   I ignored her and kept walking.

   It had been a mistake to come out tonight. The moon was full and the atmosphere charged with heat and electricity. Perfect conditions for the kind of trouble I’d just walked into.

   I moved up the street, heading out of town and towards the levee, stopping when I came to an abandoned ’59 Biscayne.

   The engine compartment was smashed to hell and the back doors were missing but the interior was still in fair condition, so I climbed in and stretched out on the backseat.

   She crawled in after me, pressing against me, all sweet curves and supple skin.

   I closed my eyes, remembering another time, in the not too distant past.

   We’d been listening to Little Willie John, me driving, her close to me, hand on my thigh.

   Lights came around the bend, car moving fast, cutting back and forth between lanes.

   Next thing I knew, I came to lying on the roof of the upside down car and there was blood all over her Nick’s Café uniform.

   Now, lying with her there, I was ready to talk. “I think I'm gonna go down to Madam X and let her read my mind.

   She said, “That voodoo stuff won't do nothing for you. You want to know something, all you got to do is ask me.”

   “Why do you keep following me?”

   “Do you want me to stop?”

   I put my hand on her hip, felt its hard ridge against my palm. “That’s not an answer.”

   “You want to know why I’m here? Or maybe if I’m here.”

   I kissed the gentle hollow of her throat, tasted sweat and soap on my tongue. “I need to know how real you are.”

   Her mouth found mine and its warmth held the reassurance of a hundred sleepless nights.  

   So I asked the other question, the one whose answer I already knew, somehow. “Why does the music haunt me?”

   “It’s waiting for you to conjure it again.”

   I said "No, I like it, I like it, it's good."

   "You like it now but you'll learn to love it later."

   “How do you know that?”

   She sighs against my skin. “Because I promised them you’d play again.”

   I push out from under her. “No! Not so much as a riff.”

   “It’s the only way I can keep coming back to you again.”

   “I’ll play,” I said, holding her tight. No way would I let her get lost somewhere down that crazy river.

    

   (498 words)