Everything Sucks #2 The Hog House

Everything Sucks

  Short Story #2

  The Hog House

  Written by R. Smith

  Edited by Shawn M. Greenleaf

  Cover & Design by Savage1Studio

  Copyright © 2013 R. Smith

  All rights reserved

  Books and Series by R. Smith

  Pop Culture Sucks, Manifesto Of A Vampire

  Everything Sucks Series

  Knights Of Albion (coming soon!)

  The Hog House

  The Hog House Grill. A wonderland of chrome and Formica. An oddball establishment to begin with, it had been gutted and redesigned just the previous year. Most older folks didn't like the remodel job. ("Too many bells and whistles, just like those, Whaddaya call 'em, fish tails they're putting on cars lately. Who needs fish tails on a car?"). They especially didn't like the new options in the jukebox. Electric guitar and a faster beat. Gary knew he was technically a member of the Old Fogey Club, but he could tell the country was on the tipping point of embracing a new style, and he was never one to fight a tide. Whenever his fellow Fogies launched into a gripe, he'd sit back and think "Good Lord, what a buncha cranky fossils!"

  Gary spent many of his nights haunting the bowling alley with his buddies, but The Hog House was his constant. Wives and girlfriends may come and go, but The Hog House had his undying loyalty. No matter the decor, as long as the food stayed aces, he'd keep showing up. Hell, he figured they'd telephone his house if he ever missed a Sunday.

  He liked eating out Sunday mornings while most folks were still penned up in church. It was quieter. Gary wasn't a non-believer. He prayed on a regular basis, but figured if his faith escaped God's notice, that was God's fault. He would point out the oversight when he arrived at the pearly gates. Demand a one-on-one meeting. Boy, would God's face be red.

  A young lady in a crisp white dress and cherry red apron sashayed up to the table, the skirt of her dress swinging like a charming, lazy bell.

  "G'morning Gary. Darla not give you a menu when you came in?"

  "Asked her not to." Gary said with a smile. "I'm waiting for my sister. If I start looking at the menu I'll get too hungry. The smell in here is torture enough. I will take a warm up on my coffee though."

  She obliged, batting her false-lashed eyes as she poured.

  Gary lifted his mug in a toast. "Many thanks, Alice."

  "You take care, Gary." As she swished away to wait on other customers, Gary wondered how her tips stacked up compared to the homelier gals. He imagined the difference was steep. Probably offensive. He made a mental note to start tipping ugly waitresses better.

  He had talked to his half sister on the phone the previous day. His instructions had been simple, "Just tell the lady with the dyed black hair, sparking eye shadow, and kitschy earrings who you're meeting." He knew Darla would take care of the rest.

  Gary liked Darla. She was real classy, despite what her wretched taste in fashion might indicate. Gary had spent a few years whining at her to leave her husband (in a manly way, not at all pathetic), before he'd finally given up. She kissed him once, but it was during the holiday season. Mistletoe. Her husband had shrugged it off on account of the circumstances. Nope, it didn't bother the husband one bit. He too, was classy. Damn him.

  The inviting smell of ham and maple syrup was just beginning to drive him nuts when Darla appeared around the corner with Cassie in tow.

  The girl was a big nonconformist (Gary thought of her as a girl no matter how old she was. He guessed she was around 40, but lost track of stuff like this a lot). She wore a tight, black pencil skirt most of the time, with steep heels, weird looking sunglasses, and a short hair style swooped upward and back in near-white peroxide waves. With the hair and the shoes, she had an extra six inches of height. Easy. Gary didn't get it, but he was twenty five years older than she was, so he figured if he didn't get it, she was probably doing it right. Cassie existed because their Dad had remarried a much, much younger woman after Gary's Mom died. Gary chose to get over it, despite the awkwardness.

  Cassie slid into the booth across from him as Darla set two menus on the table. "Today's special is Pecan Waffles. Alice will be by in a minute to take your order."

  Cassie took off her sunglasses and set them next to the napkin dispenser.

  Gary chortled. "You know it's cloudy out, right?"

  Cassie gave a little shrug as she drew a cigarette out of her plain black purse. "I like wearing them." She lit her cigarette on the table lighter and took a long, deep drag. "I can't believe you invited that woman to Dad's funeral without consulting me. We call her The Cyclone for a reason, Gary."

  "I know she's cracker jacks, but Dad always liked her. Even when she was truly bonkers. She should be there."

  Cassie smiled. "Remember when she threw all your clothes out onto the front lawn and lit 'em on fire while you were on the road? When you got back and saw your empty closet you called Dad to help throw her out and--"

  "And he took her side." Gary finished with a rueful sigh. "I lost some really terrific shirts in that fire. And my only good suit. In her defense, I cheated on her a lot, though I don't think she minded all that much until I gave her a present on my girlfriend's birthday . . ."

  Cassie rolled her eyes. "You're disgusting." She took another drag and let the cigarette dangle from her mouth while she read the menu.

  "She did her share of running around!" Gary insisted. "She made as bad a wife as I did a husband." He picked up his menu. Light pink paper in a protective plastic cover.

  "What's good here?" Asked Cassie.

  Gary's gut rumbled. "I haven't had a bad plate yet. These are new menus, I think. The old ones were blue." He was torn between the pecan waffles and the biscuits and gravy.

  Cassie took the cigarette out of her mouth and tapped it neatly over the ashtray. "Those pecan waffles sound good."

  Decision made. Gary chose biscuits and gravy. "Trade you some biscuit for a bite of waffle."

  Cassie nodded. They had a deal.

  Gary almost set his menu down, but he spotted something that troubled him. He bent over and frowned at the pink paper.

  Cassie noticed. "What's wrong my grossly older brother?"

  His furrowed brow furrowed more. "Can I see your menu for a tick?"

  Cassie slid her menu across the table, and Gary examined them side by side.

  "I'll be back. Put in my order if Alice comes around before I get back."

  "Biscuits and gravy." Cassie said with a smart salute.

  Gary walked around the corner up to the front counter where the huge cash register sparkled like brilliant brass sunshine.

  Darla was wiping down a nearby counter. "Be with ya in one shake, hun," she promised. A minute later she was parked behind the counter, ready to listen to what Gary had to say.

  Gary cleared his throat. He loved everything about The Hog House grill and didn't want to offend any of the staff, least of all Darla. He waved her a little closer.

  She looked confused, but humored him.

  He leaned in and whispered, "You've got six typos on your new menu."

  Darla blinked, not sure what to say.

  Gary continued. "Um, twice it says 'there great.' T-h-e-r-e. What you're saying then is there's the great. It's over there. It should be t-h-e-y-apostrophe-r-e."

  "Oh . . .kay." Darla drew the word out, not certain whether to laugh at her best customer, or offer him one of the mild sedatives she kept in her coat pocket in the break room. Just mild ones, and she usually halved them anyhow.

  He went on. "Also, there's no 'e' in spinach. That's on there three times. The last one is probably just me being too nitpicky, but that line under the menu heading? '
Best grill in Philadelphia'? There's a comma between 'grill' and 'in.' It shouldn't be there."

  Darla side-eyed him. "Poor grammar gets your goat this bad?"

  Gary nodded apologetically, as if he'd just tracked mud through her house.

  "You have a degree in English or something?" She asked.

  "No."

  "So the grammar thing is just a personal quirk?"

  "Well . . . y'see, I . . . I'm . . ." He looked over both shoulders as if expecting eavesdroppers. He couldn't believe he was about to spill his guts to Darla of all people. He waved her even closer.

  She cautiously obliged.

  "I'm a pulp writer," he whispered so quietly he barely heard himself.

  "Pardon?"

  "You know the Pulp Mags? Dime Novels?" Darla opened her mouth so wide Gary just knew something loud was about to come out, so he hushed her and went on. "I'm not yankin' your chain. I've got five pen names and uh . . . three of them are, well, kinda huge if you follow the Pulps."

  "Are you for real?" Darla asked, still not convinced.

  "I would never lie to my pretend girlfriend," he replied with a half smile.

  "My oldest boy reads those rags!" Darla whispered. "Devours 'em, actually."

  Gary nodded. "Then it's a safe bet he's read my stuff."

  "Can I ask you question, Gary?"

  "Go for it."

  "Why are we whispering? We're not trading government secrets here."

  Gary sighed. "I ain't ever told anyone about this. Not a soul."

  Darla looked a bit flattered. "Why are you telling me?"

  For a split second, Gary considered giving the 'run away with me' line one last go. Instead he shrugged and said, "Urge to brag finally got to me, I guess."

  Darla chuckled. He was close enough to hear her ridiculous earrings clink around. "You've honestly told no one? Come on!"

  Gary shook his head. "No one. In case I got rejected I didn't wanna be embarrassed in front of my family and friends."

  "Oh, men!" Darla sighed. "Well, what about after you got printed? Why not spill the beans then?"

  It occurred to him that Darla was probably ignoring her Head Waitress duties for the sake of their conversation, but he didn't care. It actually made him a bit giddy. "At first . . . I mean Pulp Mags. Not exactly the New Yorker. I guess I was self conscious. Then outta nowhere some of my pen names picked up a following like you wouldn't believe!" Darla's rapt attention made it impossible for him to shut up. "I have a P.O. Box downtown where the publishers forward my fan mail, and sometimes I gotta check it twice a week." Darla's eyes seemed ready to roll out of her head like in the cartoons. "I appreciate the fans, y'know, I honestly do. They keep me going on bad days. But I like my privacy. I don't wanna deal with being known."

  Darla tapped a finger on the counter. "I'm still not sure about this story."

  Suddenly it was very important to Gary for her to believe him. "Your boy. He ever talk about Detective Hank and the Black Widow series?"

  "He loves Detective Hank!" Darla shouted, then quickly covered her mouth. "Sorry," she whispered. "He loves Detective Hank. In a kinda special way," she said with a sly wink.

  Marcus Keen, Gary thought, if her kid is 'the type,' and he loves the series that much, dollars to doughnuts he relates to Marcus. Gary loved subtext. You either saw it or you didn't, and no one was wrong. Not strictly speaking. Though in his mind, Marcus was as special as they got. Soft spoken and outwardly sweet natured, but tough as nails and damn near fearless when he had to be. He was based on a kid Gary had relentlessly teased as a school boy. When he’d grown up and realized no one had ever even tried to stick up for the poor kid, he’d felt bad. Creating Marcus was a sort of amends.

  An idea struck Gary out of the blue. It flew in the face of his whole 'under the radar' way of life, but he couldn't resist. "If he's such a big fan, how about we give the boy a thrill?" He grinned, fished into his pocket, and withdrew a single piece of lined paper. "This is the first page of the rough draft for the next book. It's a thing I do. Carry a written page until it hits the racks in print." He smoothed out the paper on the counter top. "What's your boy's name?"

  "Nelson."

  Gary wrote on the back of the paper:

   

  Dear Nelson,

  I hear you're a big fan of my stuff, and I'd be nothing without guys like you, sir. So I'll give you the skinny on a few things (think of it as a thank you). If you want a BIG hint about who the Black Widow REALLY is, and who killed Sergeant Lowdry's wife, keep an eye out for book twelve.

  Keep Reading!

  Martin J. Haggerty

   

  He folded the paper up again and held it out to Darla. "Trust me, he'll go nuts." Darla reached out for the paper, but Gary snatched it away at the last second. "Now, I'll only give you this if you swear never to tell anyone I'm Haggerty. You swear?"

  Darla drew an X over her heart. "On my Father's grave."

  Gary loved when narrative synchronicity showed up in real life. It so rarely happened.

  He gave Darla the paper, walked back to Cassie, and tried to refocus on his own Dad's funeral instead of the kid who'd probably lose his mind in just a few, short hours. He felt a little twinge of guilt as well, for feeling so good under the circumstances, but he couldn't help it. He and Darla both knew something no one else ever would. If he couldn't get her to run away with him, he supposed keeping a secret together would be enough.

   

   

   

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  Books and Series by R. Smith

  Pop Culture Sucks, Manifesto Of A Vampire

  Everything Sucks Series

  Knights Of Albion

  First, thank you for reading. Your support is much appreciated. You can get the latest news on R. Smith's projects, both current and upcoming, as well as leave reviews and comments, on the following sites:

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