THE EXCITING JOURNEY OF Writing
a Fictional Book
"IT'S A LUXURY BEING A WRITER, BECAUSE ALL YOU EVER THINK ABOUT IS LIFE."
Turning into the dealership's driveway, George jumped off his bike pushing it rather than placing it against the wall. His anger with Sam Locke continued to chew away at his young mind. When nervous or agitated, George habitually glided his hands into his pockets and balled them into fists. However, today something else grew inside of him, a corrosive malevolence.
Approaching the brick building, he noticed his father speaking to David Locke, Sam's dad and the owner of Locke Ford. George heard an annoyance in David Locke's voice. Stepping off to the side out of view, he listened.
“Blurth I’m not taking this contract. It’s not a good deal, either get more money or forget it.”
“Mr. Locke, we sold the same models last weekend for less money, this is a reasonable contract.”
“Are you telling me my business Blurth?”
"No Mr. Locke, I’m...”
“You're what Blurth? Is that what you’re doing now, you believe you can manage this place? You guys are all the same.”
“That’s not what I’m claiming Mr. Locke, it’s just that...”
“I’m not interested in excuses, I don’t want the deal,” Locke said slapping the papers out of Mark's hand.
The owner marched away leaving George's dad paralyzed in the center of the showroom staring down at the scattered papers. George stood by the doorway, emotionally gutted. It felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach and all of the air inside his body escaped. He desperately wanted to make sense out of the scene between his father and Locke. Yet, instead of screaming, a growing rage set his body on fire. It was clear the Locke's were terrible people, but something else troubled George. A more revolting picture resonated deeper inside his head.
Down on his hands and knees, Mark picked up the papers strewn across the showroom floor while the other two salesman stood off to the side snickering.
It was now obvious to George he and his father were also terrible people, weak and easily bullied. Upset with the quarrel between David and Mark, the young couple who had signed the contract stepped around George's father and slipped out of the showroom.
The afternoon grew chilly and damp as dark clouds appeared in the sky bringing rain. George ignored the cold. Inside his body, another disturbance festered. Attempts at pressing back his tears failed as they streamed down George's cheeks unchecked.
Manny, one of the dealership's mechanics wearing blue coveralls stepped out from the service area and observed the young boy leaning against the wall.
"Hey kid, are you okay?"
Without responding, George ran to his bike. Mark while gathering the scattered papers glanced up and saw his son climbing onto his three-speed. At that embarrassing moment any dignity left had disappeared. Pain tore through Mark's flesh and bones like a thousand poison arrows. He hoped George had not seen the disgraceful incident, but knew his boy witnessed everything. Mark twisted the stack of papers in his hands as he watched his son pedal away. He wanted to cry out and say, "I'm sorry."
George was confused. Never had his brain experienced so many conflicting thoughts and feelings. Anger, retaliation, pain, sadness all came crashing down around him like opposing armies converging on a battlefield. He wanted to disappear and simultaneously lash out at the world.
He pedaled as fast as he could on the busy chaotic streets darting carelessly around the onrushing traffic. Ignoring the blaring horns or screaming drivers, George raced to escape. When he turned the corner on the street where he lived George saw Angelina Capelli, an acquaintance, but deliberately avoided her.
A fifteen-year-old girl, with flaming red hair and the hourglass figure of a woman she called out to him, but he did not react. She called out again, this time George stopped.
"What's wrong George, why didn't you stop?"
"I didn't hear you."
"You biked right past me you heard me. Have you been crying?"
"Then what's wrong?"
"Nothing, I don't want to talk about it."
"Because I don't that's why."
"Maybe I can help.”
"What could you do?"
"You never know, people talk to me."
He hesitated at first, but after more coaxing, talked to Angelina. She had a way about her. He told her about the conflict at school with Sam Locke but never discussed his father and David Locke. That pain he kept to himself.
"I wish I could kill that guy."
He paced with his fists hidden in his pockets and talked about killing the older boy without realizing the consequences.
"I want to pay Sam back."
George slammed his hand against the wall, startling Angelina. Quietly she listened to his ramblings. She was good at that. Numerous times Angelina stood and listened to men young and old and their long-winded mumblings, but too often they wanted more than just conversation.
“George, have you ever had a girlfriend?”
“What--, of course not.”
“Have you ever kissed a girl?”
“I’m thirsty. I’m going inside to get something to drink, come with me. I’ve got Coca-Cola; would you like one?”
His mind elsewhere he ignored Angelina.
"Well George, do you want a Coke?"
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Taking his hand, Angelina led George into the apartment where she lived with her mother. It was larger than most places in the area, including where George and his father lived. Following her into the kitchen, the boy stood by the sink overflowing with soiled dishes from previous meals. Glancing over at the kitchen table, a half-open box of Cheerios lay on its side along with a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of Weber's bread. Angelina disregarded the mess as she kicked the refrigerator door closed while holding two bottles of Coke. She toyed with the younger boy.
“Would you like one of these?”
George not paying attention to Angelina's playfulness kept perusing the room.
"George, would you like one of these?"
As he reached for the bottle, Angelina pulled away.
“First, kiss me George.”
“What, stop fooling around let me have a Coke.”
He lurched forward and gripped hold of one bottle, but the young temptress held it tight and pulled George closer placing her tender lips on his. He tried pulling away but Angelina wrapped her arm around his waist holding him close. When she let go George jumped backward.
"Why did you do that, don't!"
“Oh George, that wasn’t so bad was it? Now you’ve kissed a girl.”
“I suppose so, but still.”
“George, kiss me and you can have the Coke. Come here and kiss me. You know you liked it.”
“I don’t want to, stop.”
Nervously he made two fists.
“George I’m not the only girl you'll ever kiss so come here now.”
Reluctantly George obeyed and moved closer.
“Okay, now kiss me.”
With eyes wide open George awkwardly pressed his lips together as Angelina placed her mouth against his. She put the Coke bottles down and resumed kissing the inexperienced boy, pressing her body hard against his pinning him up against the wall. Angelina reached down and unbuttoned George’s jeans.
"Stop that," he said. He pulled at her hand but she slapped it away.
“Don’t worry George you will love this, all the boys do.”
He tried pushing Angelina away again, but she was stronger.
“Stop, don’t touch me.”
“Stop it Georgy you’ll like what I do, I promise.”
Angelina's mouth muffled his sounds of anguish as she stuck her hand inside George’s jeans. In a surge of strength, he pushed Angelina away and ran out of the kitchen through the living room, and out the front door. Behind him, George heard Angelina laughing. When he jumped off the front stairs, he fell and rolled down to the sidewalk.
A sharp pain shot through his right leg as he stood up. He had sprained his ankle, but the anger and humiliation were stronger than the throbbing leg. Limping to his bike, George swung his injured leg over the seat and peddled slowly down the street.
Angelina stood by the open window and shouted, “You’ll be back Georgy once you find out what you missed. Until then, it’s our secret."
Limping painfully up the stairs to his apartment, he unlocked the front door and saw Mark sitting at their temporary dining table, nursing a three quarters-empty bottle of whiskey.
“George, where have you been?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Come here I want to, ta, talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. He pushed you around and you let him. We're weak, I hate you, and I hate them.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t understand George."
"I do understand. I hate you."
"Stop it; you doonnn, don't hate me. It’s hard to explain. I--I’m sorry you saw what happened,” said Mark, fragile and drunk.
“You love that bottle. Shut-up, I hate you.”
George hobbled down the hall to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. The last shards of daylight died on the windowsill and conceded to nightfall as he cried into his pillow. Today was the worst day of George's young life. Tightness engulfed his chest as the memory of the school incident echoed.
Struggling for solace, he wrapped his arms around his mid section. Tormented and suffering, George paid no attention as his fingers crawled up his body like tarantulas and wrapped themselves around his neck. He gasped for oxygen as they crushed his windpipe. He screamed but there was no sound. Just before blacking out his fingers relaxed.
Anger replaced anxiety. The faces of Sam and David Locke popped like strobe lights in his head as hatred snaked through his body. He squeezed his two fists until his fingernails broke the skin in his palms.
His head throbbed and with each beat. His ankle and head pounding mercilessly as George tried to make the razor sharp pain go away. Rocking from side to side, the abusive incidents in the school hallway and automobile showroom replayed repeatedly in his mind. He thought covering his face would free him but each scene increased with emotion. His humiliation festered.
The images of George and his father on their hands and knees with people standing over them laughing, pointing, and prodding were inescapable. Mysteriously George stopped moving. The visions dissolved like wisps of smoke. The thoughts in his head changed. He opened his eyes and stared at the unlit ceiling letting his mind zero in on a black spot near the light fixture. As he focused, his facial expression changed. Revenge had taken up residence in his head.
"I hate them; I hate them," he mumbled the words repeatedly.
In the mind of a thirteen-year-old, revenge is a fight in the schoolyard beating up the bully. George's mind was not that of a thirteen-year-old, and he was not interested in a schoolyard fight.
Reaching over he turned on the small lamp next to his bed and his eyes wandered around the bedroom then stopped. Over in the corner sat a box full of chess pieces on top of the folded board. At first, the young boy gave it no thought then realized to satisfy his revenge required a strategy. In the game of chess, one thinks several moves in advance of his adversary.
"Anticipate your enemy's moves before they know their moves."
Lying still, George fell into a hypnotic trance as his eyes closed. He dreamt he stood over two people kicking and hitting them with a long stick. Tied down and powerless they screamed in agony with neither escaping the beating. Unmoved by their pleas for mercy George continued punishing Sam and David Locke.
#the mouse that became the cat, #writing a novel, #writing a crime story,#writing,#storytelling