Scenic City Cafe Volume Two

By A. L. Gates

The master of Southern Supernatural Fiction is back with ten short stories whose roots are entwined in the buckle of the Bible Belt. An old man stumbles into a dingy bar and makes a group of bikers come to grips with who they really are...A boy's connection to the Cherokee Spirits is on display for his classmates...A Philadelphia Naval Tug dredges up a dead body and exposes an evil within the tug's crew...When a couple goes to get marital help from Lane & Lane, they realize that "death will not part them". A.L. Gates peels back the soft layers of Southern living and exposes the ghosts that beat on Southern sensibilities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. L. Gates
• Release date: Feb 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310030413

A. L. Gates

As a young boy growing up in Chattanooga Tennessee, A.L. Gates had a desire to write and tell stories. His father preferred and insisted that he go into a profession that provided stability. A.L. continued to write, but the finished products were kept to himself. A.L. attended the University of Tennessee-Chattanooga where he received a B.S. in Education. When A.L. left teaching he discovered self-publishing, an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. He decided it would provide him with the opportunity to see if he had what it took to be a professional writer. As a teacher A.L. often spoke of being a “Lifelong Learner”. He finds motivation to write by learning a new writing skill each and every day so that he will become a proficient and skilled writer. He hopes that his works will inspire a reader to turn the page and continue the journey. During the day AL. is determined to write 2,000 “good words” every day. He has been a very busy man behind the computer, currently working on three novels. One of which is, “The Evangelist’s Pawn” serial-novel which will be launched in 2016. When the sun dips below the horizon and A.L. can escape from behind the computer, he enjoys meeting with friends to throw a friendly game of darts and enjoy a cold adult beverage. You can follow A.L. Gates on his Facebook author page, that he maintains and updates on a regular basis. He often posts snippets of stories or books that he is working on.

Book preview

SCENIC CITY CAFÈ VOLUME 2

A. L. Gates

Scenic City Cafè Volume Two

© 2016 by A. L. Gates

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Smashwords is the publisher of this work.

FRONT COVER DESIGNED BY K’NOELLE WALKER

Set in Garamond

All rights reserved.

Electronic ISBN/978-1310030413

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is dedicated to my son Adam & daughter Margaret.

Words cannot express how proud that I am of your intelligence, beauty and strength.

The family name is in good hands.

The story "Jack" is dedicated to Anna Brewer Dodson and the memory of my good friend and protector.

Front Matters

I’m so glad to see you up here again. Let me clear off a spot so you can sit down and rest a while.

I’ve written a few tales to keep you entertained while you’re up here visiting. I hope that you find Scenic City Cafè Volume Two as entertaining as the first volume.

I get asked a lot of questions about my writing, but I hear two questions more than any others.

A. L., where do you come up with your story ideas?

(My favorite question is…)

"Why do you write such (Insert one of the following adjectives, or add your own) weird/scary/gory/F’d up stories?"

I hear these two questions more than any others. I’ll answer one now, and I’ll give you the other when you reach the finish line.

My brain’s always wheeling and whirring. When I’m having dinner at a restaurant, I’ll notice a couple in a corner…her face is buried in her left palm, shoulders slumped in anguish before she collapses in her hands for a silent sob. Her date…no…her husband’s looking around, hoping that no one notices the cracks in their marital china. He dismisses himself and goes to the restroom…and she turns around and sends me a pleasant, happy, content smile. She’s gonna take care of him before he goes off to his mistress.

Maybe the woman is crying tears of joy. She’s overjoyed at his sudden proposal of marriage and the huge ring that he’s slipped on her dainty finger. They could be celebrating a jury of her peers that have cleared her of the cold blooded murder of her family. Maybe her tears are sincere sadness at the death of a family member…or a clever ploy, while she thinks about the many ways to spend the millions from hefty life insurance policies. Is she crying because we’re all staring at her and trying to determine a suitable end to her worthless life…or maybe…

When I see life, I see another story. I start writing when the story begins talking to me.

Now, for your next question…Why do you write such (Insert one of the following adjectives, or insert your own) weird/scary/gory/F’d up stories?

After the Last Meal Of The Day, I’ll be happy to tell you why.

I hope that my stories, and your curiosity, will keep you up here until the very end.

See you then…

Morning Coffee

Gentle silence surrounds the cafè. Quiet as the space between my ears. I need the voices. Maybe…the voices need me. Some days, when the voices are scarce, I look for the blue clouds.

It wasn’t too long before the people started filling the cafè…filling my mind. They were trying to catch the news from a talking head that held court at one of the front corner tables. Although depressing yellow clouds of death were all this ‘head’ would provide, the growing throng sat, watched and wept.

An old man opened the door of the cafè, setting off the bell. It wasn’t cold, but he shook his shoulders and swiveled his head. He looked around, but after a few sweeps of the room, it was obvious that who or whatever he was looking for wasn’t here. At least, not on this morning.

He took one more look over his shoulder while his bony, paper white fingers circled the doorknob. He squinted in my direction allowing, his brain to determine if he knew me. His smile had a familiar smell to my eyes. He hobbled his flesh covered bag of bones back toward my table. Hello, young man. I came here to give you something. You mind if I take a load off?

He nodded toward an empty chair across from me and sat down without my permission. His frame was covered in old clothes from someone’s ‘old days’. Ragged overalls and work boots befitting a rural existence. When he opened his mouth, the teeth remaining in his skull were broken, and black from rot. A strand of spit rappelled inside his mouth as he prepared to speak. He recited a story that caressed each of my emotions. I was so rapt by his tale, I missed the blue cloud. When I removed myself from his hypnotic tale, I noticed that the cafè was replete with happy smiling patrons. The talking head was quiet, and listening to the old man.

It was when the old man called me Son that I knew he was going to leave me. He patted my head and lay down on the coroner's gurney. My friends and I bowed our heads as his breath left him like a yellow cloud; void of life. His skin rotted away to the bone, and the bones crumbled before our eyes. In a moment, all that remained was his dust...and the memories of his stories.

A woman that bore a strong resemblance to the old man broke the silence with a laugh, and a story. While she spoke to us, small puffs of blue dust left her mouth and floated toward the low ceiling of the cafè. They hovered over my new friends as they listened to the fair woman retell old tales. Her eyes poured cognac and we drank her story.

I guess I was the only one that could see the happy blue cloud. Everyone in the cafè lapped from the woman’s goblet of lore. The blue cloud darkened before belching lightning and thunder, scattering the crowd back to their tables. The throng hid their heads under soggy paper napkins and aging menus. I didn’t run. I tilted my head, opened my mouth and drank it all in. The raindrops fell quick and hard. When my mouth was full, I captured as many as I could in my coffee cup. I let my tongue run over my scarred, wooden table, lapping every possible blue drop.

The rain stopped and the cloud moved on. For a few seconds, it hovered over the muddy remnants of the old man. I barely noticed its presence. My fingers tapped the keys to the rhythm of the rainy tale that I’d captured.

I took one more sip before it all evaporated, and searched the cafè for another blue cloud.

1%'er

The sun was at its highest point in a Friday late summer sky. Confederate gray clouds masked the sun's existence as the residents of East Ridge did what their routines directed.  A strong breeze whipped up from the south, and the smell of a Southern summer rain was in the air.

Redneck Bar is the polite euphemism locals use to describe the little shack on the south end of Ringgold Road. The locals with reputations to protect don't crack the door to take a peek inside, much less have a beer. Some folks wait until the sun is hiding below the horizon.

Distant thunder accompanied an old black man into the bar. Houses of the Holy creaked through busted speakers, nailed to wire on the walls next to a juke box from the 1990's. Most of the lights inside the juke box worked, but one flickered to a rhythm that only it could measure. A CD cover of AC/DC's Highway To Hell stared back from behind the glass. The flickering juke box light played on Bon Scott's horns. 

The old man shuffled through the door. One foot confusing a step with the other. His cane provided balance and made his gait easier on the eyes of the two patrons enjoying their liquid solitude.

Here you go man. A man whose wardrobe betrayed the crows feet creeping away from the edges of his eyes, turned the swivel stool toward the new arrival.

Welcome to Mugs Pub. She wasn't fat, but her hips were lazy and jiggled more than they did a few years ago. The old man wasn't exactly sure what she looked like a few years ago. He was certain that time had softened and worn down what used to be an attractive figure. The little voice belonged to a face that told the age old story of wine, song and pregnancy. She’d probably squirted out three or four children by the time she reached the elder age of twenty-five. A few faint stitches exposed special love from one, or maybe two men.

What'cha gonna have today Mister? Her smile made a scar over her left eyebrow twitch. The old black man hooked his cane to the bar and looked down toward the man that offered the seat.

You a roofer? The old man nodded in the other man's direction.

The younger man nodded before he spoke. His jeans were spotted with blackened tar. A faded black knock off t-shirt proclaimed his attendance at a 1980's Van Halen concert. A beer gut proclaimed his love of beer and his disdain for exercise outside of his job. Yeah. How'd you know?

The old man turned back to the little barmaid. I'll have what he's having. Buy him one while you're getting mine out of the cooler. He looked down toward the roofer. You've got that black roofing tar all over your clothes. Those are your working jeans for a few weeks, then you get another pair. Your boots were the real giveaway though. You get one pair a year knowing that you'll divorce them in twelve months.

A bottle thunked on the bar. He didn't take his eyes off of the roofer's boots resting under the bar. I worked as a roofer for a couple of summers while I was in college. The rich kids were off enjoying some beach and some babes. I was slapping tar and learning what work was all about.

Right now we've got Happy Hour prices. That'll be four dollars. Her smile was fake...false, but well practiced.

The old man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a curved, black leather wallet. Its shape revealed an intimate relationship with his ass cheek.

Here you go young lady. She reached for the ten dollar bill and turned toward the register that acted as a divider of the U-shaped bar. You just put all that change in your tip jar. Looks a little lean right now. A long slim brown finger tapped a large glass jar that held one faded dollar.

Well, thank you Mister. I ain't gonna turn my back on a free beer. The man with the tar stained jeans took a final swig from his bottle and pushed the empty toward the barmaid. Anna, I'm ready for the one my new friend bought me.

I gotta figure you didn't get much done today with the rain. A free beer helps ease the pain of a light payday. The old man lifted the beer and took a short gulp.

Thanks for the beer old-timer. My name's Ricky. Ricky Dempsey. What do you mean by a light payday?

Young man, I've been around the block so many times they named a street after me. Most folks don't use hot tar to roof their house. So that means you are doing a bit of commercial roofing. You didn't get a full day in and probably didn't finish the job. Right, Ricky? The old man tilted his chin down and smiled over his beer at the roofer. Ricky nodded a shameful, shy nod and prepared his top lip with an explanation.

There ain't no reason to explain nothin' to me Ricky. I'm just an old geezer that watches folks. Helps me keep my mind sharp and my wits sharper.

Anna leaned over the bar. She angled her elbows in so that she could muster what cleavage she could out of her drooping breasts. What's your name mister? She'd caught sight of the one-hundred dollar bills that had taken up residency in his wallet a few months ago.

Well today my name is Lewy. L-E-W-Y. The old man put the bottle on the bar and flexed his hand open, then closed, in front of his face.

Bad Company bounced around the dusty walls. Ricky reached over toward the older man. Hey Lewy, you okay?

Ricky, I've been better, and as I get older, it's only gonna get worse. Let's just enjoy our beer and wait for the worst to get here.

The roofer shook his head and turned his head toward a television that was crammed into the corner of a cigarette smoke stained shelf. It fought for its space along with a few broken down old beer boxes. Looks like Lewy here is a modern day Nastredameus. He's predicting the future for us. Thanks for the beer my new friend. My day hit rock bottom when God didn't let the sun come out for me. I needed to work today.

That's Nostradamus, rocket surgeon. Anna responded but her eyes never strayed from the television. He was a dealer of medical supplies back in France. I forget that word. Apathy...Apache. She giggled at her last guess.

Apothocary. And you're right. When he wasn't playing foreteller of the future he sold medical supplies. I'm impressed. Lewy wrapped his brown hand around his bottle and raised it toward Anna.

What? That a stupid barmaid knew who Nostradamus was? Or what he did as a day job?

Lewy took a longer swig and pushed his empty bottle across the linoleum bar counter. Most folks don’t know what his real job was. I've learned not to assume anything about anyone, but I still get surprised every now and then.

Mister, I wasn't supposed to be here. I planned to attend college and become an attorney. Then, I let some guy get me drunk and he tricked me into believing every lie that came out of his crooked mouth. So...well, here I am. Anna rolled her eyes skyward and sucked in a deep breath.

Hey Lewy, you should see Anna play Jeopardy. She never gets any...

A mechanized roar caught Lewy's attention while Ricky spoke. The steel horses rattled a plaque from a distant victory. 

Looks like your business is gonna pick up today Anna. Lewy ran his right hand down the neck of the amber bottle and created two crinkly lines of condensation.  The two drops raced to the crease between the side of the bottle and the counter-top. The motorcycles went silent and the closing strains of Shooting Star competed with unknown voices.

Ricky turned back to Anna.Harleys. Weekend warriors are still at work. Maybe it's...

The trio jerked their heads around toward the sound of breaking wood. A tall man with long hair stepped through the doorway, carrying a skinny blond over his shoulder. The party's here now folks. Hey Bar Bitch, get me and my folks some longnecks.  You better keep'em coming until we leave. If you don't, there will be hell to pay.

Two other men followed him into the bar along with a burly woman. They all wore the same uniform: Black boots, well worn blue jeans, white T-shirt, covered by a black leather vest. An assortment of multi-colored patches proclaiming victims, victories and locales, covered the front of their vests.

The tall man walked by the pool table and bounced the skinny giggling blond on the green felt. She rolled a bit toward the furthest corner pocket, but gathered her balance and rested on her butt.

The other four were laughing and rolling along the wall closet to the street. They laughed and back slapped each other. At 11:45 in the morning, these four were drunk or worse. Ricky swiveled around to watch the four bikers stagger and fall about the small bar room.

Y'all sure are some funny ones. I thought I was the only one a little buzzed this early in the morning. Ricky leaned back in his seat, and watched the bikers drunken dance.

The tall one staggered a crooked line toward Ricky and Lewy. My name is Royal. Lewy never turned around in his stool, but kept his head craned back enough to keep an eye on the fracas.

Ricky leaned back and laughed in Royal's face. You sure are some kind of fucked up. What vitamins did you take with your beer?

You'se thinks I'ms funny? Lewy's peripheral sight watched Royal's pale palm sweep through the stale bar air and clap against the counter. Anna and Ricky jumped with the sound. Royal's initial movements were loose and fluid. The clap bounced off the walls and lone window of the bar. A man threatening to kill someone on COPS was the lone sound.

Royal let the sound bounce around without a word. No. No Roy...Royal. I don't think you're funny. Royal stood between Lewy and Ricky and stood upright, reaching every inch that God gave him.

Boys, I think my fat friend is laughing at me.