I SHORT STORIES
The Bayou Lagoon
(*This was published in the TCC's Eyrie Literary & Art Magazine, 2010. With this short story, we had to use color schemes throughout.*)
It’s amazing the things that come into your mind, and the things you wonder about, and the people you meet – all sitting in a 24-hour diner – at midnight. Being a writer is tough. When I can’t think of anything to write about, I have to take a drive, and then while taking a drive, I get a little hungry. Then, I decide to stop over at my “House of Great Ideas and Frequent Funhouse, Sometimes Madhouse” – and there’s no telling what will go on, especially on a Thursday. Lots of great memories.
For some reason, Thursdays at midnight was a special and unique time at the Bayou Lagoon diner. You get a plethora of people coming in. Many locals, tourists, truckers, drunks and drug addicts, troublemakers, prostitutes, couples’ (married, unmarried, sometimes both – at the same time – with different people of course), and many people just driving through.
I park my little crimson ‘68 Beetle in its usual spot out in front near the entrance – if Mr. Henderson didn’t park his big navy, tarnished Ford pick-up truck there. He usually brought along his chocolate retriever Mudd, and leaves him on the back of the truck barking at customers as they come in. And every time he does, he’d tap on the glass window barking back in his grueling voice: “MUDD! COOL IT!” Mudd would stop immediately – for about 1 minute, until someone else came along. And once again, Mr. Henderson would tap on the glass barking at his beloved, disobedient mutt. But Mudd didn’t care. He knew the drill. He was a spoiled dog. He knew coming to the diner was a delightful outing. Mr. Henderson would always order a t-bone steak and potatoes (fully loaded), and guess who got the t-bone and the left over potato? Mudd.
Mr. Henderson wasn’t there, and I got to park in my spot. I grab my purse containing just my wallet, a pencil, moleskin journal, and lipgloss – and walked in. Familiar voices and settings began to blend in. I got greeted with the familiar “Hey dere! Hadn’t seen you here awhile” (even though I came last Thursday, and Monday).
It was the owner of the Bayou Lagoon, Cajun Jean. He use to get mad when people spelled his name “John” instead of “Jean”, like the French way of writing it. But he got so used to it, he just stop caring. As long as you acknowledged that he was Cajun, all and anything else didn’t matter. I sat down in my usual spot on the stool around the counter, the farthest away from the front. I was an observer, and wanted to write if the opportunity came, (and eat) in peace. Cajun Jean didn’t have to ask me what I wanted. He already knew: a basket of piping hot fries and a Dr. Pepper with extra ice.
He didn’t give me the food this time. His daughter Maria did. Maria didn’t look Cajun or white at all. She had black hair and brown eyes, but had her father’s French nose. Maybe it was the Native-American or the Creole from her mother’s side. I never asked, just wondered. It was because of Maria that Cajun Jean named the diner Bayou Lagoon.
It was first named Monroe’s after Mr. Claddius Monroe. He passed away and the family decided to sell the diner to Cajun Jean, who was a long time customer, and loyal family-friend. Cajun Jean wanted to give it his own special touch. Maria was only in the 3rd grade at the time and came to the diner studying a list of scientific words her teacher gave her for homework. Reading the word, then definition, she read aloud: Bayou – the definition, and Lagoon – the definition. Cajun Jean popped up from flipping a hamburger, saying: “My God, I think I’ve got it!” And the rest is history. That’s the story he tells anyway.
Maria had dreams and big goals. She too, wanted to be a writer, in particular famous journalist. She turned 16 and went from being Miss Congeniality to Miss I-Wanna-Smoke-Drink-Party-Skip School-And-God-Knows-What-Else-That-I’m-Not-Suppose-To-Be-Doing. She ended up losing her virginity to a 20 year-old guy name Tex and ended up getting pregnant. She works at the diner part-time and taking care of a 5 year old little boy. Tex is in and out of jail and working the few jobs he can get.
A big rig pulled up outside and everyone in the diner stopped and look to see who it was. A muscular, bald, tall man hopped out of the truck slamming the hard door making an earthquaking sound. He walked into a whispered and hushed room, all except for Cajun Jean’s greeting. Tattooed on his arm was the name Diesel.
Mrs. Talbot (a retired teacher who needed a job – one where she didn’t have to put up with her catty husband, Jim I am assuming), took his order of bacon, sunny side up eggs, grits, andouille sausage, toast, a side of beignets with extra powdered sugar, and a large cup of coffee.
The intimidation of Diesel became less and the room resumed to normalcy. He sat next to Kitty Harris and her new boyfriend (this week) Tommy, and started talking about traveling on the road and where he was going next. “I’m headed back to Texas. Will probably stop there for a few days, rest up, then head back home to Kentucky, and wait for the next job.” “Ooh, I had a boyfriend from Texas one time… and Kentucky too…” Tommy just rolled his eyes and went back to his chicken fried steak.
While finishing up on my fries and drinking my second helping of Dr. Pepper, I semi-enjoyed a recurring conversation about shrimping with Mr. Tucker. He was Bubba Gump times 10 when it came to talking about shrimp and shrimping. Once again, I heard about 1,000 plus ways to cook shrimp, the best places to go shrimping, how he made the best shrimp cocktails (what’s to learn?), and many other “shrimp-based” topics. Thank God he went outside to take a cigarette break. By the way, he was eating a shrimp quiche.
The sound of screeching tires alerted the diner. It was Tex. Cajun Jean literally turned Cajun red. He came in stumbling, nearly knocking over Mr. Smith who was headed out the door; smelling like fermented beer and crispy smoke. He cursed and screamed for Maria. “Get outta here!” yelled Cajun Jean. “You’re not supposed to be ‘round her! You know dat! I told ya next time you came into mah diner, I was gonna let you have it, son!” Tex, outraged and getting even more furious started banging on the counter top and throwing napkins, and salt and pepper shakers.
Maria came out from the back crying and pleading with Tex to leave. She grabbed him leading him out towards the door, but he began to grab her violently and scream vile things at her. Cajun Jean grabbed his rifle from behind the counter. The remaining diners, including myself looked in awe, surprised. Who knew?
Cajun Jean came from behind the counter and stepped in front of Tex and Maria. “I done told ya boy! Don’t let me use dis!” Mrs. Talbot joined Sam the fry cook in the corner clutching a broom handle. Diesel who was coming out of the restroom heard all of the commotion and stepped in. “Leave the girl alone, and leave the diner.” Tex stopped. “Who in the hell are you? You don’t tell me what to do.” “GO! Now! Last warning.” Diesel responded hastily, but calming and firm. Tex decided to take a swing at Diesel. Maria jumped out of the way and Tex ended up hitting Cajun Jean, and Diesel ended up punching Tex in the face. But Tex didn’t give up. He and Diesel took the fight outdoors.
Cajun Jean lay on the floor trying to get up. Maria rushing over to help her father discovered he had a broken nose. Mr. Tucker called the police from his cell phone and they were soon on the way. The police came about 5 minutes later to the chaotic diner. Tex was a bloody mess and Diesel barley had a scratch. Officer LaFonte arrested Tex and Officer Dean began asking all of us questions. Diesel apologized to Cajun Jean, but he responded: “You may have saved all of our lives, and saved me from doing time in prison.” Mr. Tucker ended up driving Maria and Cajun Jean to the hospital.
Ms. Talbot ended up closing the diner for the night. All of us remaining diners pitched in to help clean up. It was about 2 AM when I ended up arriving back to my duplex apartment. The diner was back to normal by the following Monday.
“What a night that was. That was defiantly something to write about.” I said to my fiancé, Travis. “When you go back to Louisiana, you have to take me there to meet Cajun Jean.” Smiling I said: “Of course! But until then, we can just look at this picture, and I can tell you more crazy stories. Did I ever tell you about the time when Mr. Henderson ACTUALLY had the nerve to bring Mudd INTO the diner…?”
TATTERED
(*This was a jump in art/creative writing piece. The photo was of a mother and her child in the back of a wagon during the Great Depression. In this story, I am writing from the dress' point of view.*)
Since the moment you laid eyes on me, you knew I was the one. I sat there lonely, sitting in page 56 in the Womens’ Apparel section of the Sears & Roebuck catalog – just waiting for someone to select and send for me. You lived on a small plot of land out in Oklahoma. Your husband grew wheat and raised hogs to put food on the table. You have 6 kids – all sons – no daughters. You somehow managed to save $20. You worked your fingers to the bone cooking, cleaning, and helping out on the farm – and yet, you still had time to volunteer in the community and go to church every Sunday – you deserved me.
You waited 3 weeks for me. You became antsy each day before the mail arrived hoping and anticipating I would come. “No, not today.” said Mr. Johnson the mailman. “Damn!” you would say in disbelief. On a cool, Tuesday morning, you were sitting on the porch steps knitting Little John’s overhalls when Mr. Johnson gaily arrived tooting his horn. The horn that you hated, but not on this particular, unexpected morning - the day I finally arrived.
It was like the day Little John arrived into the world. You thanked Mr. Johnson and cradled me like a mother hen protecting her eggs.
Running towards the bedroom, you quickly ripped off my packing like a madman in heat and admired me lustfully. I was even more beautiful and breathtaking in person. How could someone admire something so simple and plain, I will never know. I’m checkered with blue and white squares with a plain looking collar with buttons. Nothing more. Nothing less. And yet, you looked at me like I was the best thing in the world. I am your Egyptian cotton, your finest Chinese silk, your Taj Mahal. I fitted perfectly around your medium waist and I made you feel like a whole new woman again.
You gave Mr. Bateau the shock of his life when you came out wearing me with the pearl necklace that his grandmother had in her family for generations. After all, it was your 15th year anniversary and you couldn’t fit into your wedding dress anymore… not that you wanted to wear it 15 years in a row anyway.
Since that night we were a real Bonnie & Clyde. I had the adventure of a lifetime. Church picnics, weddings, birthday parties, local social gatherings, baby showers, and even once or twice to a funeral or two, covered with a black shawl of course. Together we made heads turn, voices whisper, and envious folks chuckle.
But over the years, our events and outings together became lonesome and unfulfilling. It was 1933 and instead of being covered in your cheap lavender perfume, I was covered in dust, patched up, tattered, and torn. Instead of gardening, we spent most of our time cleaning, and running from dust, trying to salvage the little wheat, potatoes, and onions we could, if weather permitted.
We spent more time at church instead of home. Since Little John died from dust pneumonia, we stayed on our knees and drenched in tears. We finally had enough, and headed off to California looking for a better life. That didn’t go as planned either.
One Sunday morning, I was found lying on a lifeless body. I thought I would be with you forever, but I ended up inside of a trunk covered with mothballs along with your wedding dress, and Little John’s overalls.
Life just isn’t fair. Not even for a simple, little dress.
The Bayou Lagoon
(*This was published in the TCC's Eyrie Literary & Art Magazine, 2010. With this short story, we had to use color schemes throughout.*)
It’s amazing the things that come into your mind, and the things you wonder about, and the people you meet – all sitting in a 24-hour diner – at midnight. Being a writer is tough. When I can’t think of anything to write about, I have to take a drive, and then while taking a drive, I get a little hungry. Then, I decide to stop over at my “House of Great Ideas and Frequent Funhouse, Sometimes Madhouse” – and there’s no telling what will go on, especially on a Thursday. Lots of great memories.
For some reason, Thursdays at midnight was a special and unique time at the Bayou Lagoon diner. You get a plethora of people coming in. Many locals, tourists, truckers, drunks and drug addicts, troublemakers, prostitutes, couples’ (married, unmarried, sometimes both – at the same time – with different people of course), and many people just driving through.
I park my little crimson ‘68 Beetle in its usual spot out in front near the entrance – if Mr. Henderson didn’t park his big navy, tarnished Ford pick-up truck there. He usually brought along his chocolate retriever Mudd, and leaves him on the back of the truck barking at customers as they come in. And every time he does, he’d tap on the glass window barking back in his grueling voice: “MUDD! COOL IT!” Mudd would stop immediately – for about 1 minute, until someone else came along. And once again, Mr. Henderson would tap on the glass barking at his beloved, disobedient mutt. But Mudd didn’t care. He knew the drill. He was a spoiled dog. He knew coming to the diner was a delightful outing. Mr. Henderson would always order a t-bone steak and potatoes (fully loaded), and guess who got the t-bone and the left over potato? Mudd.
Mr. Henderson wasn’t there, and I got to park in my spot. I grab my purse containing just my wallet, a pencil, moleskin journal, and lipgloss – and walked in. Familiar voices and settings began to blend in. I got greeted with the familiar “Hey dere! Hadn’t seen you here awhile” (even though I came last Thursday, and Monday).
It was the owner of the Bayou Lagoon, Cajun Jean. He use to get mad when people spelled his name “John” instead of “Jean”, like the French way of writing it. But he got so used to it, he just stop caring. As long as you acknowledged that he was Cajun, all and anything else didn’t matter. I sat down in my usual spot on the stool around the counter, the farthest away from the front. I was an observer, and wanted to write if the opportunity came, (and eat) in peace. Cajun Jean didn’t have to ask me what I wanted. He already knew: a basket of piping hot fries and a Dr. Pepper with extra ice.
He didn’t give me the food this time. His daughter Maria did. Maria didn’t look Cajun or white at all. She had black hair and brown eyes, but had her father’s French nose. Maybe it was the Native-American or the Creole from her mother’s side. I never asked, just wondered. It was because of Maria that Cajun Jean named the diner Bayou Lagoon.
It was first named Monroe’s after Mr. Claddius Monroe. He passed away and the family decided to sell the diner to Cajun Jean, who was a long time customer, and loyal family-friend. Cajun Jean wanted to give it his own special touch. Maria was only in the 3rd grade at the time and came to the diner studying a list of scientific words her teacher gave her for homework. Reading the word, then definition, she read aloud: Bayou – the definition, and Lagoon – the definition. Cajun Jean popped up from flipping a hamburger, saying: “My God, I think I’ve got it!” And the rest is history. That’s the story he tells anyway.
Maria had dreams and big goals. She too, wanted to be a writer, in particular famous journalist. She turned 16 and went from being Miss Congeniality to Miss I-Wanna-Smoke-Drink-Party-Skip School-And-God-Knows-What-Else-That-I’m-Not-Suppose-To-Be-Doing. She ended up losing her virginity to a 20 year-old guy name Tex and ended up getting pregnant. She works at the diner part-time and taking care of a 5 year old little boy. Tex is in and out of jail and working the few jobs he can get.
A big rig pulled up outside and everyone in the diner stopped and look to see who it was. A muscular, bald, tall man hopped out of the truck slamming the hard door making an earthquaking sound. He walked into a whispered and hushed room, all except for Cajun Jean’s greeting. Tattooed on his arm was the name Diesel.
Mrs. Talbot (a retired teacher who needed a job – one where she didn’t have to put up with her catty husband, Jim I am assuming), took his order of bacon, sunny side up eggs, grits, andouille sausage, toast, a side of beignets with extra powdered sugar, and a large cup of coffee.
The intimidation of Diesel became less and the room resumed to normalcy. He sat next to Kitty Harris and her new boyfriend (this week) Tommy, and started talking about traveling on the road and where he was going next. “I’m headed back to Texas. Will probably stop there for a few days, rest up, then head back home to Kentucky, and wait for the next job.” “Ooh, I had a boyfriend from Texas one time… and Kentucky too…” Tommy just rolled his eyes and went back to his chicken fried steak.
While finishing up on my fries and drinking my second helping of Dr. Pepper, I semi-enjoyed a recurring conversation about shrimping with Mr. Tucker. He was Bubba Gump times 10 when it came to talking about shrimp and shrimping. Once again, I heard about 1,000 plus ways to cook shrimp, the best places to go shrimping, how he made the best shrimp cocktails (what’s to learn?), and many other “shrimp-based” topics. Thank God he went outside to take a cigarette break. By the way, he was eating a shrimp quiche.
The sound of screeching tires alerted the diner. It was Tex. Cajun Jean literally turned Cajun red. He came in stumbling, nearly knocking over Mr. Smith who was headed out the door; smelling like fermented beer and crispy smoke. He cursed and screamed for Maria. “Get outta here!” yelled Cajun Jean. “You’re not supposed to be ‘round her! You know dat! I told ya next time you came into mah diner, I was gonna let you have it, son!” Tex, outraged and getting even more furious started banging on the counter top and throwing napkins, and salt and pepper shakers.
Maria came out from the back crying and pleading with Tex to leave. She grabbed him leading him out towards the door, but he began to grab her violently and scream vile things at her. Cajun Jean grabbed his rifle from behind the counter. The remaining diners, including myself looked in awe, surprised. Who knew?
Cajun Jean came from behind the counter and stepped in front of Tex and Maria. “I done told ya boy! Don’t let me use dis!” Mrs. Talbot joined Sam the fry cook in the corner clutching a broom handle. Diesel who was coming out of the restroom heard all of the commotion and stepped in. “Leave the girl alone, and leave the diner.” Tex stopped. “Who in the hell are you? You don’t tell me what to do.” “GO! Now! Last warning.” Diesel responded hastily, but calming and firm. Tex decided to take a swing at Diesel. Maria jumped out of the way and Tex ended up hitting Cajun Jean, and Diesel ended up punching Tex in the face. But Tex didn’t give up. He and Diesel took the fight outdoors.
Cajun Jean lay on the floor trying to get up. Maria rushing over to help her father discovered he had a broken nose. Mr. Tucker called the police from his cell phone and they were soon on the way. The police came about 5 minutes later to the chaotic diner. Tex was a bloody mess and Diesel barley had a scratch. Officer LaFonte arrested Tex and Officer Dean began asking all of us questions. Diesel apologized to Cajun Jean, but he responded: “You may have saved all of our lives, and saved me from doing time in prison.” Mr. Tucker ended up driving Maria and Cajun Jean to the hospital.
Ms. Talbot ended up closing the diner for the night. All of us remaining diners pitched in to help clean up. It was about 2 AM when I ended up arriving back to my duplex apartment. The diner was back to normal by the following Monday.
“What a night that was. That was defiantly something to write about.” I said to my fiancé, Travis. “When you go back to Louisiana, you have to take me there to meet Cajun Jean.” Smiling I said: “Of course! But until then, we can just look at this picture, and I can tell you more crazy stories. Did I ever tell you about the time when Mr. Henderson ACTUALLY had the nerve to bring Mudd INTO the diner…?”
TATTERED
(*This was a jump in art/creative writing piece. The photo was of a mother and her child in the back of a wagon during the Great Depression. In this story, I am writing from the dress' point of view.*)
Since the moment you laid eyes on me, you knew I was the one. I sat there lonely, sitting in page 56 in the Womens’ Apparel section of the Sears & Roebuck catalog – just waiting for someone to select and send for me. You lived on a small plot of land out in Oklahoma. Your husband grew wheat and raised hogs to put food on the table. You have 6 kids – all sons – no daughters. You somehow managed to save $20. You worked your fingers to the bone cooking, cleaning, and helping out on the farm – and yet, you still had time to volunteer in the community and go to church every Sunday – you deserved me.
You waited 3 weeks for me. You became antsy each day before the mail arrived hoping and anticipating I would come. “No, not today.” said Mr. Johnson the mailman. “Damn!” you would say in disbelief. On a cool, Tuesday morning, you were sitting on the porch steps knitting Little John’s overhalls when Mr. Johnson gaily arrived tooting his horn. The horn that you hated, but not on this particular, unexpected morning - the day I finally arrived.
It was like the day Little John arrived into the world. You thanked Mr. Johnson and cradled me like a mother hen protecting her eggs.
Running towards the bedroom, you quickly ripped off my packing like a madman in heat and admired me lustfully. I was even more beautiful and breathtaking in person. How could someone admire something so simple and plain, I will never know. I’m checkered with blue and white squares with a plain looking collar with buttons. Nothing more. Nothing less. And yet, you looked at me like I was the best thing in the world. I am your Egyptian cotton, your finest Chinese silk, your Taj Mahal. I fitted perfectly around your medium waist and I made you feel like a whole new woman again.
You gave Mr. Bateau the shock of his life when you came out wearing me with the pearl necklace that his grandmother had in her family for generations. After all, it was your 15th year anniversary and you couldn’t fit into your wedding dress anymore… not that you wanted to wear it 15 years in a row anyway.
Since that night we were a real Bonnie & Clyde. I had the adventure of a lifetime. Church picnics, weddings, birthday parties, local social gatherings, baby showers, and even once or twice to a funeral or two, covered with a black shawl of course. Together we made heads turn, voices whisper, and envious folks chuckle.
But over the years, our events and outings together became lonesome and unfulfilling. It was 1933 and instead of being covered in your cheap lavender perfume, I was covered in dust, patched up, tattered, and torn. Instead of gardening, we spent most of our time cleaning, and running from dust, trying to salvage the little wheat, potatoes, and onions we could, if weather permitted.
We spent more time at church instead of home. Since Little John died from dust pneumonia, we stayed on our knees and drenched in tears. We finally had enough, and headed off to California looking for a better life. That didn’t go as planned either.
One Sunday morning, I was found lying on a lifeless body. I thought I would be with you forever, but I ended up inside of a trunk covered with mothballs along with your wedding dress, and Little John’s overalls.
Life just isn’t fair. Not even for a simple, little dress.