Chapter Thirty-Seven

Here’s the next Chapter of Lost and Found.

One of the writing of fiction techniques offered by a wonderful friend and mentor of mine in Vermont, who is an amazing and published novel writer herself, was to try to leave the reader wanting to turn the page at the end of the Chapters.

Now, I know we’re not actually turning pages here at the blog. I also know there are several of my readers who would like to see the pace picked up for the posting of these Chapters. Yet, here I am adding another Chapter where “something” seems to always be a Chapter away.

I wish I could pick up the pace of these postings, but I need to stay a bit ahead of all of you. I’m working hard on getting my own writing pace into a higher gear, but I’m still not fast enough to post more frequently, so I hope you’ll bear with me. Perhaps it’s one of the shortcomings of attempting to write a book in a blog.

Be well, be in peace …

Ron Rink
==============================================

I leaned my bike against the side of the Sugar Bowl building, untied the box with the cigarettes, put it under my arm and walked in the front door. I tried to swagger like I had seen Billy do when he walked, but I wasn’t sure that I managed to make it look convincing. There was lots of conversation going on as I entered. All the stools at the soda fountain were filled with guys in black State Fair Dukes jackets and black peg pants. Once I stepped in the door, all the conversation stopped. They just looked at me without any expression on their faces. One of the guys was Billy. The booths along the front and side of the store were also filled with guys and a few girls. It was deadly quiet as they looked me over.

I stood just inside the front door, and using all the strength I could muster to not show how scared I was, let my eyes travel over each of the faces looking back at me. Billy was sitting at one of the stools and when my eyes came to him, I nodded. He nodded back but didn’t say a word. I let myself look around at each of the others while I was hoping no one would see my knees shaking. After what seemed like an eternity of being scrutinized by the gang, the people in the booths went back to talking among themselves.

One of the guys sitting at the counter stood up and walked over to where I was standing. He was about a head taller than me and was built like an army tank—this was one big guy. He wasn’t fat or especially tall—he was just big. He had blond hair that was long on the sides and back. He was wearing a regular man’s hat so he looked like a movie gangster to me. His face gave the impression of being round although his jaw was square. He had a couple of small scars—one alongside his lip and another over his right eye. When I looked at his eyes, I got a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. It felt like he was shooting steel barbs out of them into my brain. There was no expression coming from them other than cold hardness. I could see his jaw jumping on one side of his face as he glared at me. He had a chartreuse-colored shirt under his black jacket. His pants were pegged very tight around his ankles and very wide around his knees. He had a long chain running from his belt and into one of his pockets. His hands were in his pockets. I forced myself to keep looking into his eyes even though I desperately wanted to look away.

“Are you Van Buren?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Whatcha got in the box, Van Buren?” he said as he took one hand out of his pocket and pointed at the box under my arm.

“Some cigarettes,” I answered. I couldn’t believe the sound of my voice. It came out so high-pitched it sounded like a girl.

I said it again, this time clearing my throat and lowering my voice, “Some cigarettes.”

“I heard you the first time, Van Buren. Are they for me?”

“I guess so. Are you Bob Morton?” I asked.

He gave a slow nod and continued looking at me with a smirk on his face.

I handed him the box, then put both hands in my pockets so he wouldn’t see them shaking.

He took the box, looked in it then handed it to one of the guys sitting in the booth along the front window.

“Here you go, Fred,” he said. “Divvy these up to everybody.”

Fred took the cartons out of the box, opened two of them and held up some packs of each kind of cigarette.

“Who wants Luckies?” he called out. “Who wants Camels?”

The rest of the guys and girls started yelling out either Luckies or Camels as Fred tossed the packs out to them. There was a lot of laughing and yelling while that was going on. Some of the guys were jumping up and snaring extra packs as Fred tried to throw them to other guys. The level of horseplay and cursing was rapidly increasing.

“Hey, Fred, you asshole, who taught you how to throw?” someone yelled.

“Fred, you fuckin’ shithead, you threw me a Lucky, I wanted a Camel,” someone else called out.

“Hey, Fred, you threw my pack to Jack—gimme another one, goddammit.”

“Go to hell—take your goddam cigarettes and shut the fuck up,” Fred yelled back good-naturedly.

Bob Morton stood watching the activity and then looked back at me.

“You want to get into the Dukes?” he asked.

I nodded.

All the cigarettes had been distributed. The gang had settled back down and were watching us and listening to what we were saying.

“Do you think you’re good enough?” Morton asked.

I nodded.

“You ready to prove it?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey Cross and Dunlap,” Morton called out, “You think Van Buren here can take you guys?”

One of the guys in the booth by the window laughed and said, “No way, Morton, he’s just a punk kid!”

I looked at this guy but I didn’t recognize him. I was thinking that he might be Crazy Jimmy.

“Yeah, he don’t stand a chance,” said the guy sitting right across from him.

That guy was Bobby because I recognized him from around school. He was sitting with a pretty, dark-haired girl and had his arm around her. They were both smoking and grinning.

Bobby leaned over to the girl, and just loud enough for me to hear, said, “Don’t worry, baby, this kid can’t hurt me. Look at him, he’s just a punk!” Then he pulled her close and kissed her long and hard on the mouth.

Morton moved over next to me, put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Let’s go do this thing, Van Buren. Let’s go see how good you are. C’mon Cross. You too, Dunlap. Let’s see what this Van Buren kid here can do!”

With his arm still over my shoulders, Morton turned me around, reached out, pulled the door open, and walked me out. The rest of the gang all got up and in one big group of black-jacketed kids, followed us out the door.
==============================================
My other blog about Buddhism

http://www.buddhistbelief.com
==============================================