Motel (working title)

[Guest Gabriel Duncan]

So, this is something I started a long time ago. And I've got about three different versions of this story open and going. It's kind of hard for me to decide where this story is going, if it's going anywhere. I think the first fifty pages or so are going to be spent describing the city fo bernesberry and its various occupants.

this story is about a guy who lives out in the middle of no-where, who works with his mom in a motel they own. and in the restaruant on their property. MOTEL . . . working title.

Motel

Gabriel Duncan

I woke up when I felt the bed move. Arnold was getting out. He was my twelve o?clock. The all around tan of this man fit in with the burgundy of the antique dresser behind him. His jeans were well worn and beginning to become faded around his thighs. Arnold was a car mechanic; and the grease under his fingernails stood out over the blue dress shirt that he buttoned against his chest.

I was spread eagle and barely conscious as he slipped a few green bills into the black leather workboots I was wearing before this-- before him. They stood, Arnold and my boots, alone at the door of my room. Just another generic motel room in another generic road-side motel. He kissed my forehead goodbye, as he always did, and slipped out the door. I rolled over on to my side, deftly aware of the tingle my ass was giving me.

The alarm clock shattered any semblance of sleep I had. This was my twelve to four. My siesta, if you will. My little four-hour break from the boredom of Bernesberry. I can?t even say it wasn?t all that bad-- because it was. I wasn?t in school anymore. So I had an abundance of free time. That?s not true, either. I didn?t have much time at all. My mom runs the only motel in this town. After I graduated from highschool, she put me to work. This was the type of town that only a handful of people ever come to in a year. We didn?t have peaks. We were never busy. But we do usually have two or three people checked in at any given time. Artists and writers and muscicians come here for inspiration. They come to look at the mud browns and the red clay of the cliffs surrounding us. This is an ideal vacation spot for couples or a great place to hold your business' retreat. Whatever.

Our groccery store is also our sporting good store. Is also our pharmecy. Is also a malt shop. Is also our licquor store. This motel is also a bar. Is also a restaurant. Is also the town?s swimming pool. And it?s also home to my mom and me.

This place used to be a mining town. Shale. But the company that came here to dig went out of business. And so the rest of the people left to find another non-union minimum wage job. Or they became alcoholics. If you ever want to know more about this happy town, just sit in the bar for a few minutes. Every person here will be more than happy to share their stories with you. God knows I?ve heard them enough.

I made my appearance in the restaurant. Stock day. All of the regulars were there. Nothing was different. Except for Old Man Buzzard?s tie. Today it was silk, blue, with a penguin sitting on an ice cube. Old Man Buzzard broke down here five years ago. His Cadillac decided to call it quits. I remembered when he came in to the bar and told me this as I was watching mom fix drinks and tidy the coasters. He lit a cigarette and gulped down his shot of whiskey. This is back when he was still a business man. He was driving across this fabulous landscape of death to his next meeting. I forgot what he was pitching.

Anyway, he slurped down his alcohol and told me it would take three days to get the parts for his Cadi. Old Man Buzzard was tired. He was sixty already and he didn?t need to travel anymore. And, to him at least, this looked like a pretty good place to just stop.

The people that end up staying in Bernesberry are people that just don?t care anymore. We don?t have a sign announcing our small town on the highway. But, if we did, it would probably read, ?Welcome to Bernesberry: The Home of Apathy.? Anyway, this is five years later now. I?m eighteen and he?s sixty-five and we?re both trapped here.

?Hey Mr. Buzzard,? I noticed his eyes were glassy when they met mine. He must have been here for a while.

He winked, ?Hello there, young man.?

?Your usual, Mr. Buzzard?? I was already fixing it. Long Island Iced Tea, something that all business men drank, I assumed. I?d only met one other, and he liked them, too.

He had an especially self-important air today, ?Of course, my boy.?

Mr. Buzzard had only been my customer only once. Mom was having the hotel remodeled and I need a school book. This was back when I was working under my mother for free. Back when I was thirteen. Two months after he arrived. I guess that?s about when I started tricking.

Five years later, he was still sipping his drinks and watching me work behind the bar. Like I said, nothing here changes. He still gave the same tip. Old Man Buzzard still wanted me. He even gave me his car.

Five years ago, whenever I needed to get something in town, he would trip over himself to drive me--which wasn?t funny sometimes, because he was always drinking. I?d always decline. My mom let me use the car whenever I needed it. He told me he didn?t want me driving around if I didn?t have a license. Why the old man was doing all of these favors, even though I wasn?t returning them, was beyond me. All I knew was: this old man was being nice to me. He was still trying to pay for my books and meals and even movies. He was giving me rides whenever I needed one. So, why stop a good thing?

That?s what I thought then. Now, I know how that game works.

?Do you know where my mother is, Mr. Buzzard?? He was looking in his glass for a tea-leaf fortune.

Mr. Buzzard stuck a thick finger into the glass and wiped at the residue, then he stuck it in his mouth. He sucked on it for a second or two, then took it out with a loud pop. ?I think she?s with John,? John was her every Tuesday at five.

?How are you today, David?? Mister Buzzard asked me.

His grin always made me a little nervous. Today, it held the predatory gaze I?d seen many times before. I shivered. ?I?m doing fine sir. And you??

?Excellent, my boy, excellent. But I would, however,? He leaned in to me so no one would overhear him, ?Wish to discuss a little business with you.?

?No!? I blurted out before I quickly checked my volumn. ?I can?t do that.?

"Why not?" He poured himself another glass of whiskey from the bottle he had purchased last night, during my shift

This conversation happened often. "Mr. Buzzard, you're my friend. We can?--"

"Don't be prudent." The old man?s voice struck through me. "You've done it for me before."

"I'm not going to do it again; and I don't care how much you offer me."

"One hundred dollars." He was already reaching for his wallet.

"No."

"Two hundred," Mr. Buzzard was shoving cash at me.

"No!" I took a pack of cigarettes out from under the bar and began to pack it loudly.

"Please, David," I could hear his pleading face. My eyes were hiding in the pack of cigarettes I was trying to open. "Just this one, last time. I'm an old man. I don't have much life left in me."

"I'm sorry," Small puffs of smoke punctuated my words, "I won't do that for you."

"Five hundred dollars," Buzzard dug deeper into his wallet.

"Mr. Bu--"

"I'll even throw in my car." His desperation was wielding his business man?s skills. To no avail.

"You already gave me your car, remember?"

"I know, but you never drive it."

"I don't need to go--" He cut me off.

"I'll pay to get you a license. No driving test or anything."

I opened the dishwasher. "Mr Buzzard . . ." I sighed.

"Please, David, call me Sam. We've known each other for so long. How many years is it now? Four?"

"Five, sir."

"Sam."

"All right, Sam; I respect you as a friend. I had fun with what we did, but I will not do it again. No matter how much, okay? You can offer me as much money as you want to. But I won't agree, Sam. I just won't. So drop it, okay?"

The thumps and shouts of drinking games were weighing on my nerves more than usual, just like the tray of glass I was trying to jokey into the dishwasher. A shot glass rolled off of the tray and hit the floor. Luckily, it didn?t break.

"But, why not, David?"

I had a handful of shot glasses pressed against the tray and my other hand reaching for the shotglass I had dropped when Mr. Buzzard gripped my arm. I couldn?t focus. Mr. Buzzard?s breath was on my cheek. Somehow he had managed to lean over the bar. I remembered the shards of glass and chunks of reflect us. The sink must have sprung a leak again. The glass was sitting in a puddle. The shards looked like pretty ice cubes. Pressure was building between my eyes and I became very self-conscious.

"David?"

?Hello, ma?am,? Mister Buzzard had let go of my arm now and my mother stood behind him, looking down at me from the other side of the counter. Her hair was wet, brown, frizzy and clinging to parts of her cheeks. The door swung shut. Her face was flushed and her breath was heavy. Maybe she had run over here.

?David,? She looked concerned, ?Are you okay??

I stood up; broken glass crunched under my boots. ?I?m fine, ?ma. How are you??

?Doing okay,? She gave my side of the bar a once-over, ?What happened??

I rubbed my arms self-consciously, ?I tripped? sorry.?

?It?s okay, just get it cleaned up.? Mom didn?t believe me. Even though, she began assesing the restarunt, ?Did you take stock??

?Yep,? A clatter of dishes came from the kitchen. The night crew?all two of them?were cleaning up from whatever scraps the poker players had ordered. Usually it?s just an order of fries, or something greasy like chicken wings. Today they wanted a platter or two of appetizers. Chavo must have rolled in again with some shit. No doubt, they?d be up all night, hooting and hollering. They?ll probably even try an? cause trouble, again, when we have to cut ?em off. Most other places around here only stay open ?til eight. Here, we close a midnight.

Cory and Jaden were sitting outside, waiting for me to finish my shift. Cory and Jaden are fourteen and sixteen. They?re straight, so I catch a lot of questions from them, and a lot of ribbing. Heh. Innocence is a lost notions these days, so we knew what ?fucking? was before we were ten. I?d always seen my mom fucking this guy or that guy. And when she wasn?t fucking them, she was too busy talking about how we were always so fucking broke. Anyway.

Cory was bright and outgoing, he had big cheeks and he was always smiling. Jaden was completely adorable, and once he developed more, I?d love to take him for a ride. But he was troubled. He?s kind of a budding serial killer; he likes to fuck with animals. But we try not to hold that against him. Sorry, didn?t mean to put him a bad light. He?s pretty cool, and we?ve had some serious conversations.

When they walked in earlier, my mom was rummaging behind the counter for some receipts I didn?t add up earlier. They had cokes.

?Hey Laura,? Jaden?s voice was quiet and raspy. He always talked like that. I thought it was kind of cute.

?Hey boys,? she stood up and walked into her office.

Mister Buzzard was sitting at the end of the bar, so Jaden leaned in to whisper at mer.

?Hey!? He said, ?Wha?cha doin???

?Working,? I gave him the, ?duh? face.

All of a sudden Cory bursts out with, ?Jaden wants to know if you will sell him pot.?

I must have turned ten shades of red. Mister Buzzard burst out laughing. Jaden socked his little brother on the arm. ?Quiet, fucker!?

?How much??

Jaden looked in his pockets, ?Ten.?

When I walked out the back door, Cory stood up first. He opened his mouth, but I just said, ?C?mon? and kept walking to my room. I told them to chill while I took a shower and weighed out his sack. I made it heavy, since I knew his Dad would pinch it. When I tossed him the sack, he handed me his bill and said thanks. We sat down on the couch and played some video games. When I looked up at the clock, it was close to midnight and I had to kick them out.

Thor was coming over next. This was the last job of the night. Thor drove a rig for a groccery distributing company, for some place like Sysco or Raleys.

---------------------------------------

That's it. God, this is like nifty all over again. LOL. Anyway, tell me what you think. This is something that I can finish.

[Graeme]

You've put in a lot of detail into a small space. I'm very impressed, but I've noticed that poets who write prose are often very good at that.

I found some of the references to the five years repetitive. You started off by saying that Mr. Buzzard arrived five years earlier and then kept jumping back and forth and repeating that comment about five years.

The other thing that struck me, because of your references to "you" in the story, is that this is David's first person account of something, and it's clearly written for a reason. A question to ask yourself is why is David writing it and for what audience. It's not a personal diary, because he addresses the reader in at least one part:

This place used to be a mining town. Shale. But the company that came here to dig went out of business. And so the rest of the people left to find another non-union minimum wage job. Or they became alcoholics. If you ever want to know more about this happy town, just sit in the bar for a few minutes. Every person here will be more than happy to share their stories with you. God knows I?ve heard them enough.

The other thing I can think of to say, from first impressions, is that David's emotions are largely missing. He comes over as world-weary, and if that's the intention, then I think you've nailed it, but if you're trying to get the readers to emotionally connect to him, that's missing (at least for me). He showed repulsion for Mr. Buzzard's advances, but that's about it. There isn't a lot of emotion towards the other characters introduced.

Overall, I think it's great!

Graeme

[Guest Gabriel Duncan]

You've put in a lot of detail into a small space. I'm very impressed, but I've noticed that poets who write prose are often very good at that.

The other thing that struck me, because of your references to "you" in the story, is that this is David's first person account of something, and it's clearly written for a reason. A question to ask yourself is why is David writing it and for what audience. It's not a personal diary, because he addresses the reader in at least one part:

....

Graeme

Hey Graeme,

Thanks for replying to this topic so quickly.

I totally understand how these first four pages come off with little to no emotion. I've never been really good at showing emotions through writing. Or, making my stories incredibly "emo". And if I did, I dunno how. Emotional sentences seem kind of weird. But, these are the first four pages. And I'm sure the reader will get attached to the narrator, even if he never gets attached to the reader. (Call me cocky. But I think that's how it works.)

And, speaking of echoes. Yeah, it was difficult to keep it rolling. So I had to go back five years. but Mr. Buzzard plays a big role in this story. In one of the original versions . . . never mind.

Umm, when I write in first person. I almost always say "you". It's really hard not to. I know there's a reader. And I know Angel was all about reasons and why and shit like that. But, you'll see I address the reader in almost anything I've written, story-wise. Which makes me wonder if addressing the reader is such a wise thing.

Great note about David's account/re-telling. Audience--I'll think about it. I think I write for people like me. That read the same kind of books I read. Like Crummy and Sarah, which I think will be similar to this story.

I also wanted to make it real. Like being out in the middle of fucking no where. I know I've got a lot to work as it comes to creating depth for my charecters. But, right now, I'm more focused on continuing the story, and filling in the details, you know?

Thanks for the compliments,

--Gabe

[Tragic Rabbit]

As I told you in IM, I think this might be the best prose you've ever written. I insist that you finish it.

Right now.

Love,

TR

[Jason Rimbaud]

Hey Gabe,

This piece has a whole bunch of things lurking under the surface.

Who is this kid David and why is he turning tricks in the middle of nowhere? Why doesn't anyone care

that this kid is turning tricks? WHat kind of mother lets her kid turn tricks?

Sheesh, and this is just the first four pages.

I like gritty and dirty stories where not everyone is standard black and white and things just might not be

as they seem. I thought of so many directions this story could head into and can't wait to see the path you choose.

Very entertaining, makes me want to read more just to find out why. Good job.

Jason

[Tanuki Racoon]

As I told you in IM, I think this might be the best prose you've ever written. I insist that you finish it.

I agree. I like this. It has HUGE promise. Please, do more work on it.

However you must fix this terrible offense:

"Don't be prudent." The old man's voice struck through me. "You've done it for me before."

I believe, sir, you mean "impudent" and not "prudent" -- the sentence doesn't make sense as written.

PRUDENT: careful and sensible; marked by sound judgment

IMPUDENT: marked by casual disrespect;

[Camy]

However you must fix this terrible offense:

I believe, sir, you mean "impudent" and not "prudent" -- the sentence doesn't make sense as written.

PRUDENT: careful and sensible; marked by sound judgment

IMPUDENT: marked by casual disrespect;

ooooh, though it's dangerous to mess with a Wascawy Wacoon I have to disagree.

This conversation happened often. "Mr. Buzzard, you're my friend. We can’--"

"Don't be prudent." The old man’s voice struck through me. "You've done it for me before."

"I'm not going to do it again; and I don't care how much you offer me."

He's had sex with him before, and this time has decided not to. So surely that is being prudent? It sounds like 'sound judgement' to me. Anyway, impudent in my book is interchangeable with cheeky, and he's definitely not trying to cheek him...

Probably wrong, but another point of view ... so Gabe, who's right? a Wascawy Wacoon or the cutest Emu you'll ever see?

And when's it gonna be finished?

[Paul]

This conversation happened often. "Mr. Buzzard, you're my friend. We can?--"

"Don't be prudent." The old man?s voice struck through me. "You've done it for me before."

"I'm not going to do it again; and I don't care how much you offer me."

He's had sex with him before, and this time has decided not to. So surely that is being prudent? It sounds like 'sound judgement' to me. Anyway, impudent in my book is interchangeable with cheeky, and he's definitely not trying to cheek him...

That use of "prudent" brought me up short too when I read it. Thinking about it a moment, I figured out what the author probably actually intended, that the old man was chiding him for what he (the old man) thought was, in light of their past history together, an unwarranted and not-too-believable display of scruples. But simply saying "prudent" isn't the way you'd expect someone to express that. Missing is the sense of skepticism and scorn. If he was going to use the word and still get the meaning across (to us the readers as well as to the character), it should be phrased sarcastically, like "Now don't go getting all prudent with me all of a sudden."

[Tanuki Racoon]

ooooh, though it's dangerous to mess with a Wascawy Wacoon I have to disagree.

This conversation happened often. "Mr. Buzzard, you're my friend. We can?--"

"Don't be prudent." The old man?s voice struck through me. "You've done it for me before."

"I'm not going to do it again; and I don't care how much you offer me."

He's had sex with him before, and this time has decided not to. So surely that is being prudent? It sounds like 'sound judgement' to me. Anyway, impudent in my book is interchangeable with cheeky, and he's definitely not trying to cheek him...

Probably wrong, but another point of view ... so Gabe, who's right? a Wascawy Wacoon or the cutest Emu you'll ever see?

And when's it gonna be finished?

Yeah but it doesn't work well in the way it's used if that's indeed what he meant. We'll leave it up to Gabe to decide naturally. Of course I'd rather he ignore us and finish, right? :)

[Trab]

I thought he really meant "prudish" rather than "prudent".

[Guest Gabriel Duncan]

sorry, i've been away, I just wanted to thank paul for his great reply to the problem of "prudent"

yeah, when I was writing it, i couldn't remember what word I was supposed to use. just that it rhymed with prudent. it's supposed to be impudent or prudish or something. but i like paul's dissection with a careful consideration of charecter.

fucking sweet, dude.

emu and raccoon. i have to pick raccoon. simply because I find raccoons unbearably adorable; and not because he has a better point. i can use words like that in poetry, but not when i'm writing a story. people don't get it when i do.

whereas, with poetry, i don't think people are supposed to get it. like stripped, and a dozen other word I've intentionally "misused". no, in stories, when i write dialogue, unless the charecter is like me and purposely misuses words, what charecters say should make sense.

prudish would be a fine compromise.

anyway, yeah. i've been away all weekend. and i just got back, but i need to run off and write some more. yes, i am still working on this, but i am reluctant to tell you when I will begin the serialization. anyway, glad everyone likes this sample.

[Tanuki Racoon]

i have to pick raccoon. simply because I find raccoons unbearably adorable;

*BLUSH*