determined after he finished dressing and fulfilling his need for coffee and a few smokes he would take a motorcycle ride into Atlanta and make a special purchase. The thought of his prospective purchase smothered his rage for the time being.
As he exited the steamy closet of a bathroom and turned off the fan, which was ineffective in alleviating the clammy air, he couldn’t believe the headboard was still rocking. The clock now read 8:57 a.m. He heard about Viagra in prison and wondered if the drug was in use in the room next door.
R.C. walked to the front desk and decided if someone compiled a list revealing the top ten worst cups of coffee and the places that served them, the Tuck ‘Em Inn lobby would be number one. He swore, but couldn’t prove it, that they used the same coffee grounds twice, changing them with new disgusting ones every other day. Every second day the deplorable brew was lighter and tasted like hot water and rust.
As he entered the lobby the clerk said, “Sorry bud, I usually don’t put nobody beside or above our guests staying the whole week, but they requested that room. It’s their special room.”
“It’s special all right,” R.C. commented unable to muster any jest.
Some people called it mud, java, or Joe; R.C. affectionately called this coffee the brown drown. Compared to this liquid disaster, the coffee in the Fairbrook County Penitentiary tasted like Starbucks gold. R.C. sat on the curb with his Styrofoam cup, a cigarette, and his map. He feared his two naughty neighbors were still going at it and he didn’t want to hear any more debauchery at the moment. He was certain someone was going to be sore later in the day. The course R.C. set would next take him through the city of Roswell. Roswell, Georgia didn’t have an Area 51, but they did have aliens of a different variety. Once through Roswell it looked like he would have to throw some coinage in a tollbooth basket to continue on the most direct route. It appeared the silver would grant him entrance to the biggest and most friendly, it claimed, city in the south, Atlanta, Georgia.
Once in the city R.C. parked the bike amidst some smushed fountain drink cups, forty-four ounces each, and started footing it through the tall buildings. He loved to walk. Wide-open spaces were still a novelty. Before long he found what he was looking for. His quest produced a sports store that engraved Louisville Sluggers. He bought a bat he thought was the perfect weight and gleefully stepped to the counter to request engraving.
“That’s a nice bat,” the pimply geek said behind the counter.
“Sure is,” R.C. smiled.
“What do you want it to say sir?” The pimply geek’s voice cracked and he sprung a new zit as he uttered the words.
“Make the letters real dark.”
“OK” Pop. Pop. Pop. New zits formed on the boy.
R.C. rubbed the tattoo of the bird through his shirt and the vein that ran through the bird’s neck raced and thrashed like a New Orleans’ tornado. He stood almost at attention and demanded, “Birdsongs!”
Chapter 17
Red walked all the way around the house twice and back into the woods a fair distance. He just assumed they were somewhere nearby earlier; he could not find Benny’s crops. Red stirred at the ground with the tips of his fingers at first. After flirting with the surface, he dug in fingernails first and pulled a handful of dirt to his face for inspection. He transferred half of his dig to the other hand carefully studying its makeup. Following a quick sniff, Red flipped his hands over and brushed them off. It was good soil he thought. It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t bad.
Red was miffed. The soil was decent, Benny had a big enough yard but there were no crops. No wonder he doesn’t have any food , Red thought. The pizza, wings, and submarine sandwich were delicious, but the trio made Red sick.
As he exited the steamy closet of a bathroom and turned off the fan, which was ineffective in alleviating the clammy air, he couldn’t believe the headboard was still rocking. The clock now read 8:57 a.m. He heard about Viagra in prison and wondered if the drug was in use in the room next door.
R.C. walked to the front desk and decided if someone compiled a list revealing the top ten worst cups of coffee and the places that served them, the Tuck ‘Em Inn lobby would be number one. He swore, but couldn’t prove it, that they used the same coffee grounds twice, changing them with new disgusting ones every other day. Every second day the deplorable brew was lighter and tasted like hot water and rust.
As he entered the lobby the clerk said, “Sorry bud, I usually don’t put nobody beside or above our guests staying the whole week, but they requested that room. It’s their special room.”
“It’s special all right,” R.C. commented unable to muster any jest.
Some people called it mud, java, or Joe; R.C. affectionately called this coffee the brown drown. Compared to this liquid disaster, the coffee in the Fairbrook County Penitentiary tasted like Starbucks gold. R.C. sat on the curb with his Styrofoam cup, a cigarette, and his map. He feared his two naughty neighbors were still going at it and he didn’t want to hear any more debauchery at the moment. He was certain someone was going to be sore later in the day. The course R.C. set would next take him through the city of Roswell. Roswell, Georgia didn’t have an Area 51, but they did have aliens of a different variety. Once through Roswell it looked like he would have to throw some coinage in a tollbooth basket to continue on the most direct route. It appeared the silver would grant him entrance to the biggest and most friendly, it claimed, city in the south, Atlanta, Georgia.
Once in the city R.C. parked the bike amidst some smushed fountain drink cups, forty-four ounces each, and started footing it through the tall buildings. He loved to walk. Wide-open spaces were still a novelty. Before long he found what he was looking for. His quest produced a sports store that engraved Louisville Sluggers. He bought a bat he thought was the perfect weight and gleefully stepped to the counter to request engraving.
“That’s a nice bat,” the pimply geek said behind the counter.
“Sure is,” R.C. smiled.
“What do you want it to say sir?” The pimply geek’s voice cracked and he sprung a new zit as he uttered the words.
“Make the letters real dark.”
“OK” Pop. Pop. Pop. New zits formed on the boy.
R.C. rubbed the tattoo of the bird through his shirt and the vein that ran through the bird’s neck raced and thrashed like a New Orleans’ tornado. He stood almost at attention and demanded, “Birdsongs!”
Chapter 17
Red walked all the way around the house twice and back into the woods a fair distance. He just assumed they were somewhere nearby earlier; he could not find Benny’s crops. Red stirred at the ground with the tips of his fingers at first. After flirting with the surface, he dug in fingernails first and pulled a handful of dirt to his face for inspection. He transferred half of his dig to the other hand carefully studying its makeup. Following a quick sniff, Red flipped his hands over and brushed them off. It was good soil he thought. It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t bad.
Red was miffed. The soil was decent, Benny had a big enough yard but there were no crops. No wonder he doesn’t have any food , Red thought. The pizza, wings, and submarine sandwich were delicious, but the trio made Red sick.
Similar Books
