So Much for That ~ an excerpt from my novel in progress by D. Savannah George
Here I am, living in the Deep South, home of Coca-Cola, the Bible and the Braves. I'm sitting on the porch of my crummy apartment, delicately sipping Jack and Coke, and wishing for some excitement, like a plantation to catch on fire, or a cavalry to ride up.
My wishes " those I'm making tonight and those made over my relatively short life " are obviously being messed up by whomever is supposed to work on them.
As soon as I graduated from high school, I emptied my savings account, packed my clothes and Granma's Bible in two battered suitcases, kissed my crying mother on the cheek and high-tailed it out of there, driving off without a glance back. I assumed that with my brains and figure I wouldn't have any trouble finding work that made me lots of money, but beyond that I didn't have a plan. All I knew, all I'd ever known, was my washed-up country town with its cows and closed-mindedness, and I was ready for something more.
I drove until my car (older than me with 20 years of rust on the hood) decided to blow a gasket or something. I'd never really had to worry about car trouble; there were always mechanically inclined boys around, and besides, the shop teacher at school liked using my Buick as an example.
I'd been driving for most of the day, hit the Virginia State line, rolled into a town called Danville, and stalled out right past the "Welcome to Danville " Population 53,026" sign.
Well, saying the car stalled is like saying a lion yawned, when actually it roared and seared the eardrums of its trainer.
The car made this horrible noise, then I made one similar about ten seconds later.
I slammed open the door, flung my legs onto the roadway, and about got run over by a trucker screaming past me.
His truck made a horrible noise, and I could have cried, only I found it somewhat amusing seeing all the smoke rolling off his tires. He managed to get that truck set down about ten miles down the road, then loped back, wringing a huge red bandana in his meaty fists. (Okay, so I exaggerate " it was probably more like one mile, but that bandana was definitely huge.)
"Jesus, ma'am," I could hear him mumbling from the second his feet hit the steaming asphalt. I decided a demonstration of my feminine wiles might be in order, so I brushed my hair out of my face, cocked my leg up and stuck my chest out.
"Jesus, ma'am," he kept mumbling, a steady stream to accompany his walk. I had about fallen asleep by the time he got to me.
"Jesus, ma'am," he said again, so I just stuck my hand in his general direction, said "Name's Jessie, not Jesus," and laid a smile on him.
He was none too impressed.
"What the hell you think you're doing, stopping in the roadway? I could have run you right over, yes sir I could have. I mean, Jesus, Jessie, I'm plumb wore out and last thing I need to do is run over some, what is this? Buick! on my way in!"
I withdrew my hand, figuring he wasn't going to shake.
"Well, I didn't exactly plan on stopping in the middle of road, if you get my drift! I am driving a fairly ancient Buick, and she just died on me! So you'll forgive my impudence for blocking your way in!"
Well then my Trucker completely surprised me; he threw back his head and laughed.
"Jesus girl, you sure got some spunk, don't you? Well, let's get your car out of the road."