Lonesome Town - 3 Short Stories Read online

  Lonesome Town

  Three Short Stories by Terry L. Hall

  Copyright © 2012 by Terry L. Hall

  Lonesome Town

  1977

  Life is filled with memories. If you’re lucky more of them are good than bad. Some you hang onto like an old worn penny in your pocket. Others you can’t lose no matter how hard you try. But try you do. The particularly painful ones are pushed to the side and held at arm’s length, only to return with neither a whisper nor notice.

  Mary Fran Whitmore has a rendezvous with those memories every night at 12:00. It’s been five years since she lost her husband, Paul J. to an accident. Still she climbs into the bed and sleeps on the right side just as she did for eight years of marriage. Staring at the ceiling above her, she succumbs to habit and rolls onto her side.

  Feeling disappointment as she looks at the empty place in the bed, she reaches out with her arm and gently pushes the pillow. Shutting her eyes, Mary Fran prays that sleep will come quickly and take her to her dreams.

  Mary Fran Whitmore, 33 year old widow, mother of one, waitress at a 24-hour diner called The Stella. The tag on her apron says “Mary,” but her friends call her Mary Fran. Paul J., her husband of eight years, was killed in a motorcycle accident. It was a stupid thing. His kick stand came down while riding no more than two miles from the diner where Mary Fran worked.

  Most bikes have a warning light for that kind of thing but Paul J.’s Norton Commando had no such thing. It cost him his life. But tragedy never stays within the victim. It crawls like a viper into the souls of everyone that is touched by the pain. They alone serve a sentence as cruel as jail itself. The survivor is asked to rise in the morning with hope, only to be forced to lie down with despair in the evening. This is the lot that has been chosen for Mary Fran.

  Paul J. loved his bike. He would make the black paint shine so bright that he kidded he could shave himself in the mirror like reflection. Mary Fran would tell the customers that Paul J. needed that bike as much as he needed her. How sad, she thought to herself that it was the bike that killed him.

  Paul J. would ride out to the Stella on warm summer nights and have a slice of pie while he waited for Mary Fran to get off work. The Stella had a jukebox like any other diner. There were the Beatles, Stones, all those bands on the 45’s in the old Wurlitzer. Paul J. had different taste though. He grew up in the 60’s. He liked Elvis, Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps, and when he wanted something mellow or romantic his choice was Ricky Nelson.

  Whenever Paul J. did something that Mary Fran didn’t approve of she would say, “Paul, I’m gonna send you to ‘Lonesome Town’ if you don’t watch out.”

  Paul J. would just laugh and say “Aw Mare, you know that’s my favorite song. Don’t say that, you’ll ruin that song for me.”

  Mary Fran would just smile back and go on with a smile on her face. One night Paul J. came out to The Stella about 8:30 for his pie and coffee. He told Mary Fran he felt like taking a late night ride and wondered if she would go along. Mary Fran said, “No hon, it’s getting too cold for me. You go on and I’ll see you later tonight. Be careful.”

  “Mary Fran! Table 9’s up!” Joe yelled from behind the counter. Joe was the night manager and the cook for the last hour of the day.

  Standing up from his seat, Paul J. said, “Well I got to go. The road awaits me. I’ll see you later hon! Joe, don’t work too hard!”

  “What, no ‘hon’ for me?” Joe replied. “I never work too hard!” Joe said with a laugh. “Goodnight Paul!”

  Mary Fran grabbed the plates for table 7 and started to walk across the diner floor. Just as she got to the table she heard a song from the juke box. It was Ricky Nelson. Turning to look back she sees Paul J. standing there smiling at her. He’s mouthing the words “love you,” he then turned and walked out the door.

  Pausing for a moment, Mary Fran stared at Paul J.’s back. She got a weird feeling inside as he left. After a moment she said, “Love you too,” but Paul J. was gone. She turned to her table and sat the plates down. Listening for a moment, she heard the Norton start and leave the parking lot. “Do you need anything else?” she asked the customer as she laid the check down. “Well just ask if do.”

  Closing time finally came that night after a long day. Mary Fran put on her jacket and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow Joe!” she yelled behind the counter.

  Smiling, Joe said, “Hold on, I’ll watch you walk to your car.”

  “You better, you’re my bodyguard!” Mary Fran yelled back with a laugh.

  Joe walked over to the front window as he always did and watched Mary Fran walk out to her white Granada. Just as she reached her car the sheriff pulled into the lot with the lights flashing. Getting out of his car he walked towards Mary Fran. After a moment of silence she dropped her purse on the ground and staggered back against the side of her car. Standing in the window watching, Joe mumbled as he put his head down, “God damn Mary…”

  Two Years Later…

  “Come on Manny! My glass is dry!”, the man yells as he smacks the palm of his hand on the bar.

  Staring for a moment the bartender says, “Hold your horses Bud. I’ll be there in a sec.”

  The Crossroads is a local bar located in Sandusky, Ohio, open 11am to 2am, Monday through Saturday. Rundown on the outside, passably clean on the inside, The Crossroads is the favorite drinking hole of the people lucky enough to have a job in one of the small factories that line the street of the industrial park.

  The irritated man at the end of bar is a local character named Bud. Bud loads cases of toilet paper into the back of semi-trucks all day. When he’s not working, Bud likes to fill his mouth with Little Kings beer. If he’s sober he comes across as a loudmouth know-it all. If he’s not, well, he’s an asshole.

  Manny, the nightshift bartender has known Bud for years. He doesn’t dislike or like him. He just accepts Bud for what he is. He keeps him parked at the end of the bar, throttles his beer drinking as the night gets long, and tries to keep him out of trouble. When it’s all over Bud will usually throw Manny a sawbuck for his trouble and head out the door.

  Tonight was like any other night. He took his place at the end of the bar. Not yet lubricated Bud summoned his first round.

  “So how’s Bud?” Manny asks.

  “About time you got down here old man. I was starting to get the ‘jimmy two shakes’.”

  “Sorry about your troubles, you know you’re not the only customer I have here in here!” Manny replies while laughing.

  “So, the usual?” Manny asks Bud.

  “Sit them up right here!” Bud replies while tapping his finger on the bar. “Give me two for starters.”

  “Anything else?” Manny asks.

  “Yea, get me a burger and fries. Put a slice a pepper jack on it too.” Bud replies.

  “Ok, that’ll be up in a bit. I’ll get your beer now. One other thing. See that guy at the jukebox? He was asking about you,” Manny tells Bud as he points at a man in a black leather jacket standing across the bar.

  Turning to look, Bud stares for a moment then says, “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know. He just asked if you came in here,” Manny replies.

  Turning back around, Bud says, “Well come on old man, get that beer rolling!”

  “Yes boss!” Manny replies with a smirk.

  This was a ritual that Manny and Bud went through every time Bud was in the bar. When they didn’t see each other it was because one of them had a day off. Manny didn’t know what Bud did with his free time but he had a pretty good idea. His guess would be that he’d find Bud passed out on a sofa with a pile of Little Kings bottles surrounding him on the floor.<
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  This night something was different though. The stranger at the jukebox had gotten Bud’s attention. He didn’t know what it was yet, but something seemed strange.

  Chugging his first beer then picking up the second, Bud got up and walked over to the jukebox. Standing next to the stranger, he starts looking at the song titles in front of him.

  “Hey, I hear you’re looking for me.” Bud says to the man next to him.

  “I was looking for the guy that owns that silver 69 Chevelle SS that’s always parked out front,” the man replies.

  “Ah, you like that, huh?” Bud says to the stranger.

  “I might be looking for a car like that. Know anybody that’s got one for sale?” the stranger asks.

  “Not really. Car like that’s hard to find. Of course you can get anything you want for the right price!” Bud replies as he smiles.

  “Well, almost anything,” the man says to Bud.

  Pausing for a moment, Bud says, “Come on over to my office.”

  “Ok,” the man replies. “Just let me put a quarter in the jukebox.

  Reaching into his pocket, the stranger pulls out a quarter and sticks it in the jukebox and presses C11. Turning around, he follows Bud to the end of the bar. As they sit down the Ricky Nelson song “Lonesome Town” comes out of the speakers.

  “Did you play this song stranger?” Bud asks.

  “Yeah, I like this song. It reminds me of someone special,” the man replies in a quiet voice.

  “I’m an Aerosmith guy. Now they’re special,” Bud says as he laughs. “So you are looking to buy a car? I got a lot in that SS but I could be talked into letting her go. I got my eye on a Camaro ragtop.”

  “Well I might be interested if the price is right,” the man replies.

  Slamming his empty bottle down on the bar, Bud says, “You know that SS doesn’t have the original engine in it. It’s got an L-68 that I got out of a wrecked Corvette. Four hundred horses in that sled, and its low mileage too.

  Plus the rubbers are new on the back, you’d be getting a nice ride there buddy. I might take five large for her. Then again, I might not. I could put that engine in the ragtop and still get a good chunk of change out of the SS. That’d blow your hair back wouldn’t it?” Bud says as he laughs.

  “I don’t know, $5000 for an 8 year old car. That’s a lot of money.” The stranger replies.

  “Well let’s have another round and talk about it.” Bud says to the stranger.

  Listening quietly as he sits on the bar stool, the stranger watches Bud pontificate about all the nuances and idiosyncrasies of the 69 Chevelle SS with a 396 big block.

  Looking at his watch, the stranger says, “Let’s go look at this car?”

  “Well come on outside with me.” Waving at the bartender, Bud says, “Give me a couple Kings for the road Manny, one for me and one for my new friend!”

  Sticking a beer in his pocket Bud hands the other bottle to the stranger. “Here’s a traveler for you stranger.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” The stranger replies.

  “Suit yourself, more for me!” Bud says with a smile.

  Going outside to the parking lot, Bud and the stranger walk around the Chevelle. The Cragar SS rims shined like new. The back tires were Mickey Thompson’s. They still had the little pieces of rubber sticking on the edge of the tread, they were so new. Bud wasn’t lying when he bragged about this car. It was almost perfect.

  “Go for a ride?” Bud asks.

  “Sure…” The stranger replies.

  Climbing in to the car, Bud opens the beer he had in his pocket and drinks it in one chug. “That was yours buddy, you should have took it!”

  Reaching down, the stranger fastens his seat belt as Bud starts up the muscle car. With a deep thump the Chevelle starts on the first turn of the key. The car idles roughly, Aerosmith blares from the radio. Assuring the stranger that everything was ok Bud explains that the camshaft in the motor makes it run rough at low RPMs.

  With Aerosmith cranked on the tape player, Bud drops the Chevelle into gear. As he lets out the clutch he slams the gas pedal, the big Mickey’s let out a high-pitched screech, and the front of the car jumps.

  Bud yells, “WOO HOO,” as he grabs 2nd gear. Squealing out of the parking lot and onto the street Bud slams into third gear. Each time he shifts gears the 396 hits the clutch with a thump. It’s so loud you think it’s going to come through the floorboard.

  “You going to put your seat belt on?” the stranger yells at Bud.

  Yelling back as loud as he can Bud replies, “Nah, those are for women and kids. I’m ok.”

  Finally hitting fourth gear the Chevelle gets a little quieter.

  “Hey, what’s your name anyway?” Bud asks

  “My name?” The stranger replies. “Paul.”

  Laughing a little, Bud shakes his head and asks, “Nice to meet you Paul.”

  “You know Bud, we choose the way we live. Most people don’t realize it at the time but we also choose the way we die. Maybe you eat too much, get fat and have a heart attack. Smoke cigarettes, drugs, we all choose. Get my drift? Sure there are accidents, but even then you choose to be there when that accident happened. Look at you, drinking, driving fast, and no seatbelt, if you were to die surely your hand in that wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you Bud?”

  “You’re a crazy guy Paul.” Bud laughs.

  “You could be passed out on your couch right now, hurting nobody but yourself. But you’re not, you’re out here and I can’t let that happen. Not tonight Bud. Sorry.”

  Running through a stop sign, Bud slows down for a second then goes through the gears again. Drifting to the left, drifting to the right, the Little Kings are starting to catch up with Bud. Jerking his head a few times, Bud slaps himself in the face.

  “You ok?” Paul asks.

  Quickly jerking his head up, Bud says “I’m fine!” as he pulls the car back into his own lane.

  “What time is it Bud?” Paul asks.

  “10:17,” Bud replies.

  “You know my wife comes home from work this way every night, this very same road,” Paul says while staring blankly out the window. “She’s right around that corner up ahead.”

  Fighting to keep from falling asleep, Bud’s head falls down to the steering wheel then jerks back up. As the car drifts again, a stranger on a test-drive reaches over and grabs the steering wheel and says to the driver, “Let me help you out friend.”

  On the road ahead, a woman on her way home from work comes around a curve on a dark country road. Startled, she sees an out of control car crash into a tree.

  Stopping in the middle of the road, she runs to the car as it starts to catch fire. Looking inside she sees a loan man, steering wheel in his chest, faced smashed into the windshield.

  Jumping back from the heat of the burning car, Mary Fran stares at the wreck. For a brief moment she thinks she sees the driver’s hand move. Sliding a little closer the heat stops her again. But this time she hears a sound coming from the radio in the car. She whispers to herself, “Is that…”

  (Radio playing in the burning car)

  “There`s a place where lovers go, To cry their troubles away

  And they call it ‘Lonesome Town’

  Where the broken hearts stay “

  The Bottle Collector

  A freight train was passing in front of the fuel depot over on Campbell Street. It was a big one too, not just the length but the weight of it. I could tell it was heavy by the way it shook the ground. All the cars were black, every single one, and the whistle was so loud I thought it might break my eardrums. I’ve sat here a hundred times before and have never seen a train like this. It’s going faster too, a lot faster than the other trains. Normally I wouldn’t give it a second thought but this time I decided to back my car away from the track. I was scared that something might come off and hit me.

  As the train cleared the crossing I watched the little blinking tail light fade into the distance. Now h
ere’s the weird thing. As I started to cross the tracks, standing in the middle of the road was a man in a long coat and hat. As I slowly drove across the track the man didn’t move. He just stood there and stared at me. He was holding something in his right hand too. At first I thought it was a six-pack of beer, but the closer I looked I realized the bottles were too big to be that. I don’t know what those jars were but the closer I got to this guy the more he creeped me out.

  Finally I just drove around the guy while he stood there and stared at me. I couldn’t see a face but it was pretty dark anyway so I just hit the gas and got the hell out of there.

  One other thing though, before I left I got a look at his hands. His right hand was holding his bottles but his left hand, it was a hook. And that metal hook sparkled liked it was covered in diamonds. When my headlights hit that hook it started to percolate like a night sky. Soon as I drove by him I looked in the rearview mirror and the guy was gone, into thin air gone. He wasn’t there, it was like he was never there at all.

  My names Henry Johns, I haven’t worked in a year. I get unemployment, a food card, and I sell a little dope. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some hard-core dealer or anything. I keep it on the down-low. Just some stuff for my friends and a little bit to their friends. That’s all I carry. If I get busted I’ll only have a little me. I’ll get a ticket and a fine, nothing else. That’s how I plan it, no jail time. Not that I couldn’t handle the house, it just crimps my style. Besides, I got a business to run, mouths to feed, places to be. I hate confined places too, know what I mean?

  Since I’m small time I don’t get the best deals so I don’t make the big money. I just want some pocket cash, enough to keep me going, buy some gas, give a little cash to my kid and his mom, and keep out of big trouble. That’s what I’m about.

  I’m a Cleveland boy, hang around, hang out, get laid, and get drunk or get high. I’m day to day around here. Everybody has dreams, I’m no different, but dreams usually don’t come true. One thing’s for sure though, the next day will always come and it brings its own challenges. That’s what I prepare for, tomorrow.