TINY TUESDAY (m)

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-25-2003
TINY TUESDAY (m)
95
Tue, 01-29-2002 - 10:34am

TINY TUESDAY (m)


This week, write a scene or short story that takes place in a small town and centers on the town’s gossip.

Have fun,

Mac

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iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:28pm

TT~~ Mrs. Erwin’s and Augustus’ Return


Welcome to the town of Wynott, population 468, states the buckshot, weather-battered once pristine-white welcome sign that slightly lists to the left. The last time there were 468 folks in Wynott was 1968. I’ve decided to change the number with acrylic Watusi Red paint. Over the worn numbers, I begin to paint the number twelve. That’s it, that’s all that’s left in Wynott.

The town of Wynott, located approximately a hundred miles west of Las Vegas, and at the foot of Clark Mountain in the state of California, was a bustling rest stop for weary travelers low on petrol or food. Especially during the Dust Bowl migration, the California oil boom of the 1940’s and 50’s, and then the swinging nightclub era of the 1950’s and 60’s. Folks were flocking to Vegas to see Sammy Davis Jr., Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin of the infamous Rat Pack, and the king himself, Elvis, on the strip. As the franchised restaurants like McDonalds and Denny’s, the super stores like Walmart and K-Mart, and the Qwik-mart gas stops began to take root along the widened Interstate 15, people no longer pulled off at the Wynott exit.

Gone are the Wilson’s Grocery store, Matheson’s Diner, J.J. Johnson’s Bar, and Frederick’s hardware store. All that remains is Buck’s Auto Towing and Repair, and (some days) petrol stop (that is if Buck can get his cousin Earl to stop off in his Chevron gasoline tanker truck and deposit a small amount in his tanks). And my bait shop, Dry as Dust Tackle and Bait. There’s still water in Roach Lake, but I haven’t heard about any fish being pulled outta there in many five or six years. I carry some sodas, bags of chips, and chocolate bars too. Every now and then, some fool who miscalculates their gas levels or bladder capacity will stop in, and I’ll make a sale.

Buck and I are both retired army boys and divorcees. We fought together at the tail end of WWII and the Korean War. We decided if we survived the wars, we’d find a quiet place to call home. We met our wives in a bar in Los Angeles in 1955, and moved to Wynott. They left us in 1962 to find fame and fortune dancing on the strip. Or so they said. Haven’t heard from either of em’ in over thirty years.

There’s the Henderson’s and the Andersons, both couples in their late eighties who live next door to each other, and get together every Friday night for they’re bourbon and Spades marathon. After forty years there’s still no official winner. Blue and Tex, a couple of miners who still believe they’ll find gold up there on Clark. Juicy, the official town drunk, and rattlesnake wrestle if you find one on your porch. And, Mazey, Myrtle, and Matilda, the triplets who retired from the Mustang Ranch, or rather were put out to pasture when they turned seventy-six. We’ve got a bet, Buck and I, on how many bulls they’ve wrangled in their lifetime. One of these days we’ll pay Juicy to find out for us.

As I stand knee high in tumbleweeds stirring the thickened Watusi Red paint, the desert sun burns through my once multi-colored stripped cotton shirt now washed nearly white. I’ve painted the number one over the four and the six, and have the top half of the number two done when I spot a cloud of dust boiling up down the road. Out of the dust cloud emerges a black hearse. “Well, who gone and died?”

The hearse passes by me, and stops in front of my store about a quarter mile from where I’m standing. I put the lid on the paint can, give the lid a couple of sharp raps to seal it shut, and make my way down the road. As I walk by the Henderson’s and the Anderson’s homes, Joel H. and Buster A. step out onto their porches to see if the hearse past on by, or stopped. Mazey, Myrtle, and Matilda shout from their front porch seats as I walk by, “Death’s come to Wynott?” I shrug my shoulders in reply. Juicy, whose post is in the shade of my shop porch is leaning on his knees apparently trying to hear what the man has to say in the cab of the hearse. Buck drives by me on his way to his business at the opposite end of the road, but pulls up and parks behind the black beast.

Buck tips his hat to me as I approach them, “Howdy, James, what’s this all about?”

“Beats me.”

A stork-like man, extremely tall and thin, unfolds from the driver’s seat of the dusty 1950’s style hearse. He places a black top hat on his head, and asks, “Are you James Erwin?”

“I could be. Depends?”

“I’ve got a package for you. A Mrs. Wanda Erwin.”

Buck and I glance at each other, as Mr. Stork says, “And I was told you could tell me where to locate a Mr. Buck Augustus?”

“Why’s that?”

“Well sir, seems Mrs. Erwin and Mrs. Augustus wished to be buried in their home town. And they paid me to bring them here, and insure that they are buried together. Told me I could find the Mister’s still here.”

Juicy starts a howlin’ in that raspy cackle of his, and then I hear what sounds like a small herd of sheep movin’ our way. It’s the Henderson’s, the Anderson’s, the triplets, and wouldn’t you know it, Blue and Tex come down for supplies joining their march.

“I’m Buck Augustus.”

“I sure could use something cold to drink, if’n you don’t mind?” Mr. Stork’s cheeks are so hollow I can see the indentation of his molars pressed against his flesh.

“Sure, come on in.”

The town’s sheep stand back about ten feet from the hearse leanin’ into one another whispering comments as Buck, Stork, and I step inside. Juicy is still laughing his fool head off.

We no sooner get some iced Coke’s out of the cooler, when we here Mazey shout, “But there’s only one casket!”

Buck and I look at each other, and then at Mr. Stork. “I assumed you gentlemen knew. When I said they wanted to be buried together, I meant together.”

Buck and I say almost in unison, “Well, if that don’t beat all.”

iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:31pm

Let's hear it for happy endings! kat


iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:35pm

Great title...and terrific descriptons! kat


iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:38pm

Fantastic Maria, you nailed this exercise! Great job!! kat


iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:42pm

Mac, great twist, and FUNNNY!! Great read! kat


Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:45pm

Racy ladies....


with an alternative lifestyle and creative view of the future. I'll bet the cemetery tour becomes well-visited once the headstone for these ladies is installed.

You paint the town vividly. Great job!

Eyewrite

iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:46pm

OMGROFLMAO...DAMN, this was funny! Terrific Read, mm! kat


iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:48pm

I need to get to the "Beauty Palor" more often...great gossip there in the heat! kat


iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 2:54pm

This is great eyewrite, the characters especially! Love it! kat


iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
Wed, 01-30-2002 - 3:04pm

Not much gossip...


going on in this piece, but it's what came to me. Gotta go with the muse, I say.

And thanks! kat

ps~watch out for spell check...here, or hear??? Grrrrr!!

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