"Why do they [write] for their money? Why do they [work] for short pay? They ain't getting nowhere and they're losing their share. They must have gone crazy back there." — Michael Burton (paraphrased)
When he was eleven years old, and made his allowance by stacking cans on the shelves of Dunnaway’s Curb Market on Thursdays, Eddy thought his grandfather, Jackson Dunnaway, was the wisest man on earth. “Papa Jack” gave the best advice. One Thursday, after the grocery order was up and the two of them were sitting …
Continue reading The Plagiarist of Winfield Shoals, Part One
The world is changing / Always rearranging / From birth to the end / With my Facebook friends. It’s not that Jerry Lennart opposed Facebook. He spent a goodly amount of wasted time on it. It wasn’t that it was worse than Twitter or whatever new flavor inevitably followed. It was that word that followed …
I'll put the whole story together and post it soon. Thanks for reading. Nathan McLure had never entertained the notion that a motel might offer free breakfast for its guests, and he took to the Red Roof Inn’s morning offerings as if they were at a Shoney’s breakfast bar. He also didn’t know what to …
I thought this might be the final part, but turns out it's going to take at least one more. The boy drank both soft drinks, his and the Diet Doctor Pepper Jerry had fetched for himself. No matter. His voice cleared up, though still raspy. Jerry asked him what he’d been doing. The boy said …
This one sat off to the side for a while, mainly because I was working against a deadline with “High, Wild and Handsome.” This one also required some reacquaintance. Reorientation. I had to get my head back in it. You can “page down” a while and find the first three parts. Jerry Lennart set …
The boy showed up at the third-turn crossover gate in the coveralls he wore while racing his go-kart. The security guard recognized him and waved him across the track in the yellow ‘55 Chevy his dad had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Beau Farnsworth was feeling his oats, having won his 35-lap feature earlier …
On race mornings, Beau Farnsworth always walked pit road, long before gates swung open and fans, armed with their “hot passes,” streamed into the garage. The sun hadn’t long been up. A cool breeze fought in futility against the gathering heat. Down near turn one, Beau sat on the whitewashed pit wall. He knew but …
Word spread quickly that the great, mysterious Beau Farnsworth had deigned to grace Charlotte Motor Speedway with his presence. It was approximately a quarter to five, and he hadn’t turned a lap since winning The Winston four days earlier. The veteran Billy Hargitson, winner of exactly one race in the previous decade, had dialed …
The Tuesday-night attendance at the Moose Lodge was nine. Five were sitting around in folding chairs, playing music. The weekly jam sessions were on Tuesdays. The music stopped when Beau Farnsworth and Waddy Adkinson walked in. Beau ordered Budweisers for him and Waddy. He curled a hundred into the bartender’s palm. “How about keeping a …
As Beau Farnsworth reached middle age, he grew discontented and felt buried by the trappings of fame. An argument might be made that the prices were a mite high, but when a fan bought a tee shirt, he didn’t actually buy a piece of Beau. He just bought a shirt. Too many of them acted …
Nightrider's Lament 