Twenty Unusual Short Stories. Dr. Donald D. Hook
Twenty Unusual Short Stories
Donald D. Hook
Copyright 2014 by Donald D. Hook, Ph.D.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 9781456623098
All rights reserved under Title 17, U. S. Code, International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, recording or duplication by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the author and publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations with attribution in a review or report. Requests for permission or further information should be addressed to the author c/o the publisher.
Dedication
For my little pal, Amethyst Mist, better known simply as Misty, a genuine high-class, violet-pointed, 11-year-old Birman lady cat, who lies in her chair next to mine, while I operate the word processor, and occasionally offers good suggestions by treading on the keyboard.
Preface
This book, consisting of 20 chapter-stories dealing with various fictional characters amidst assorted circumstances, all of which are short enough to be read in one sitting, is not necessarily to be read from beginning to end but selectively as the reader wishes, for there is no logical connection among the stories. The personalities and situations encountered resemble many that the author has met in his long life, and, as in most fiction, there is a strong element of truth displayed, which is based upon the author’s life experiences. It is hoped that the reader, despite an occasional nightmare, will better understand human behavior, gain knowledge and wisdom, savor some humor, and quiet some fears.
One
Road Rage
The old pickup was not traveling fast as it made its way north on Route 13 in Delaware to a favorite fishing spot on the Choptank near Denton, Maryland. The four friends, two men and two women, were yakking animatedly about nothing in particular between slugs of beer quaffed bareback from cans. As soon as one can was emptied and flung out of a window, another was popped open. It was, to all appearances, a congenial and happy throng headed out early this spring morning, truck bed filled with fishing gear and picnic coolers and dragging a flat-bottomed outboard boat on a rickety trailer with an outdated license tag. It was Buford’s truck, and James Alfred, Buford’s good buddy, had called his attention to the violation that morning as they were loading up. “Hellfire,” said Buford, “I forgot to renew it last year. Don’t make no difference nohow ‘cause nobody’ll notice. I don’t use the thing that much. Hard to remember. Maybe I’ll buy a new sticker one day—or maybe not,” he added. Any normal person might have chuckled at that point, but not Buford. He was almost completely lacking in a sense of humor.
Buford was at the wheel, a full can of beer between his ample piano-like legs. Trucks the age of his were not equipped with fancy cup-holders like the newer versions. When asked by friends why he didn’t buy a new truck, he always answered that this one was running fine and if it should falter, he could fix it free with spare parts in his garage. What little money Buford made as a mechanic was spent frivolously almost as soon as it reached his pocket. His mother used to say she never had to mend his pockets because the weight of coins never made any holes in them. She claimed that the same was true of the paper money he carried in a wallet in his hip pocket; there was no bulge for long, and thus his pocket showed no sign of wear. He thought that was sort of funny, but his personality dictated no subtleties. What others thought was funny, he usually took seriously. Anything truly serious he discarded.
The bumper stickers festooning his truck, for example, struck most people as funny. For Buford they represented some of life’s more important truths. Although he added to them or subtracted from them from time to time, today the truck and trailer sported, in addition to a Confederate flag, such catchy stickers as “If you can read this, you are too damned close. Back away!” “Don’t blame me. I didn’t vote for that son-of-a-bitchin’ foreigner Obama!” He was especially proud of the one that read “My child is an honor student at Billy Carter Elementary School” because he somehow sensed it showed his contempt for genuine education and his love of the life of a redneck. He did not care at all for Democrats, “college boys,” or “Yankees.”
He didn’t care much for Negroes, or nigras, either—he still referred to them that way—or as “coloreds”—not out of any disrespect, he was quick to add when eyebrows were lifted, for “black” used to be a term of opprobrium. He would admit, however, that those Negroes he knew were often “trifling” and “hard to manage.” The old-fashioned expression seemed to carry just the right amount of cautionary obeisance to the past. In many ways, Buford Showalter was a throwback to the 1930s.
In another way in particular he was a very modern man who corralled a lot of women and, after a short while, tossed them aside. He was actually married once, at 17, to a girl of only 14 who, already pregnant, in a scant five months made him the father of a little girl who was unusually bright considering her background but “plain as an old shoe,” as he himself was often wont to admit. When his wife chastised him for his cruel observation, he slammed her in the mouth. For that he received six months in the clink, and his wife divorced him. The court forced him to continue to pay child support until the child’s legal majority, and for that ruling, though quite in order, he began to resent the law in all of its aspects. A friend told him he was lucky to have avoided a charge of statutory rape. For that gratuitous remark the “friend” received a hard fist to the gut, almost rupturing the man’s spleen.
That family episode of his life was now 18 years in the past, and his monetary obligations to his child were over. He never let another woman rope him into marriage, which, he said, was an institution only for the weak-minded. However, his thirst for young girls continued apace such that he early on acquired the nickname “Birddog” for his ability to sniff them out. He justified his taste for the very young with his homespun reasoning: “Catch ‘em young, treat ‘em rough, tell ‘em nothing,” adding occasionally, “And keep ‘em barefoot so they won’t run away till you are ready to kick their asses.” Believe it or not, many young women found this philosophy tantalizing and flocked to Buford.
One of Buford’s latest acquisitions was sitting next to him today as they headed north along the Mason-Dixon line for a day of fishing. Her name was Edna Mae, and she was a mere 16, though she had somehow fudged an extra year on her driver’s license. Buford had turned 35 on March 31.
You had to hand it to old Buford; he had good taste in women’s looks. Edna Mae, whose name might well have better been Ashley or Courtney or something high-class like that, was a real looker. Unlike most girls with their stringy, straight, fake blond hair, she had short dark hair, very fair skin, large greenish eyes, and seductively long eyelashes that she kept curled up to a T. Her mouth had a young rosebud look to it and so enticed Buford that every now and then he’d lean over and smother her in a wet kiss. The only time he withdrew his right hand from her shapely left leg was to pull on his beer. He was quite adept at steering with one hand or, in fact, with no hands—with only his knees—when the testosterone rose uncontrollably. A big man, he needed a lot of “loving”—his way of putting it—to stay satisfied.
James Alfred and his girlfriend Missy were half-seated, half-reclining on their seat just behind the front seat back in the jammed-up “extended cab” part of the truck and stayed locked in each other’s arms. Buford had known Edna Mae for several months, but his good buddy James Alfred had picked up this “broad” only about a week before. She claimed to be 21, but the two men felt sure you could add another five years. James Alfred didn’t believe in marriage either, even though he’d never tried it. He and Buford had been kicking around together since they dropped out of high school at 16. James Alfred was no mental giant and worked at various grocery stores for a pittance. Often, his money didn’t even reach his pockets but burned his hands until he spent his week’s pay on old cars, booze, and women.
“Hey,