He sat there alone in his office. The only light from an old desk lamp with a bulb too dusty to illuminate much. The creaky wooden chair so familiar to him seemed harder than usual, much harder. Many hours were spent here. The worn, stained blotter attested to that. At first it was for work but in time, it became his refuge. Thoughts drifted back to earlier time. Happier times. Young, a hell raiser. It seemed so long ago. Wine, women and song. And the cars. Fast, loud...fast. A marriage, love and romance. But with the years they drifted apart. The fighting was more than either could bear. Screaming, broken ashtrays and the neighbors peering from behind their curtains. Nosey bastards. So she left him. He withdrew into himself. The small office became his home. The hours he spent in the garage wrenching on this car or that bike. Ancient history it seemed. His hands, hard and cracked with age and labor. Hard physical labor. It's what he loved. But now he seemed a prisoner here. The last twentyfour hours were hell on earth to him. The waiting. He lit another cigarette. The light of the flame from his Zippo danced across the walls in an errie flicker. He took a deep drag. That helped. He picked up the bottle and poured two more fingers. Good 'ol Pinch. Always takes the edge off. But tonight was different. Cold, dark...alone. He looked at the cigarette in his hand. It trembled. Sweat had formed on his upper lip. He swirled the ice, half melted in the dirty glass, and took the drink in one gulp. A little better. But in the quiet of the room, there was noise. Noise in his head. A noise no smoke or drink could drown out. Like a sixth grade band concert slowly grinding it's way to the crescendo. He stared blankly ahead, lost in his own torment. The ashes of his cigarette fell and woke him from his trance. He shook the cobwebs out and poured another drink. Again he downed it in one pull. He sat back in the groaning chair and sighed. It would be ok. Over...soon. He closed his eyes and took solace in the fact that very soon, the HAMB Classifieds would return.
Good story...but, is it really that bad??? I'd like to read the one you'll write IF the HAMB gets closed...perish the thot! R-
Did,nt know where that story was going to go,,,,,,,, I thought sure as shit he was going to blow his brains out....... Nice story,,, now get to work!.... time till the classifieds are back will go by quicker
I don't know what the hell possessed me to write that. I haven't written anything since high school. And that was a looong time ago.
Katuna:Hope you got an "A" in high school English. You really are a good writer. Your words presented a vivid picture that really conveyed a sense of isolation and depression. Keep writing. Really cheered me up.
Thanks for the props. Maybe I could write HAMB dime novels . Zman-Doesn't have a damn thing to do with it. Just a little relief for those with classified withdrawl.
Zman, I hang my head in shame. I went back and actually READ the Tech Week sticky. A big heaping spoonful of shit for me. Gulp!
The Jalopy Journal
