Fluke

By Bart Hopkins and David Elliott

Adam Fluke is a regular guy. He wants love, friendship, and happiness. However, his bumbling-but-good-natured tendencies have left him lacking direction in life. Content with his lack of motivation, he earns a meager living delivering pizza. 

Everything changes one night, on a medium cheese pizza delivery to Sara DuBeau. 

Sara is interesting, intellectual, fun, and successful: everything Adam believes he is not.  

An unexpected, whirlwind relationship begins, and it's a match made in heaven. 

Or is it? 

Their storybook happiness is called into question by the discovery of a mysterious, buried-away photograph.

"You just look so much like him..."

Secrets are revealed, the search for answers begins, and Adam's very identity is suddenly the one thing that could tear them apart.

FLUKE will keep you turning the pages to see what happens next!

"Fluke is a wild ride that has SO many laugh-out-loud and WTF moments ... I never would have guessed what happened ... I literally laughed and cried before I finished this book ... One minute you will be fine and the next minute your stomach will take a nosedive in disbelief ... I totally related to all of the characters, they were believable and engaging. The storyline hooked me in and did not let me go." - CYNTHIA SHEPP, EDITOR, CLEAN TEEN PUBLISHING

"They touch on some very rough topics that unfortunately many people have experienced throughout their lives, and they handled the writing of it very well." - BAUMAN BOOK REVIEWS

Also from Bart Hopkins:
The Bends
Like
Texas Jack
World Wide Gone
Dead Ends

Six: A Collection of Short Stories

Also from David Elliott:
Cherokee Spleen

• Language: English
• Publisher: Human Ingenuity Press
• Release date: Jul 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386143734

Bart Hopkins

Bart Hopkins is originally from Galveston, Texas, but has lived all over the world during his 22 years in the Air Force. He was born in the middle of the 1970s, owned an Atari, and loves 80s music. He can use a card catalog like nobody's business. Now, Bart likes to travel, enjoys pretending he's a photographer, and shares as much time as possible with his beautiful wife and three awesome children.  They own a Westie Yorkie named Lulu ... or maybe Lulu owns them. Subscribe to Bart's newsletter for updates on new releases and giveaways. http://www.barthopkins.com/blog/news Website:  http://www.barthopkins.com Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/barthopkinsauthor Twitter:  https://twitter.com/bart_dead_ends Bart has written three novels, a novella, and a book of short stories ... with plenty more on the way.

Book preview

FLUKE

David Elliott

Bart Hopkins

This book is a work of fiction derived from the author’s imagination. Any reference to historical events, real people, or actual places are used fictitiously by the authors.

Copyright © 2012 David Elliott & Bart Hopkins

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form except for small selections for reviews.

For all the women in my life: Abigail, Madelyn, Evangeline, Ruby, and Donna

- David

For The Hops

- Bart

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Other Books

The Bends

Texas Jack

Like

Dead Ends

World Wide Gone

Six: A Collection of Short Stories

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

One Year Later

Chapter 1

I QUIT MY JOB THE DAY I met her.

Now, I can't say that she was the only reason I came to be unemployed; it was only a matter of time before delivering pizzas sucked my soul away completely. I can say, though, that I haven’t had many women ask me out. And a beautiful woman like Sara? Not at all.

I was standing on her front porch, decked out in my Perry's Pizza Palace T-shirt, medium cheese pizza in hand, and miraculously, I made her laugh. I made her laugh several times, and Sara said that she would like to take me out. She was free that night for the first time in months, she said, and she needed to celebrate. I drove straight to my apartment and called in my resignation to Perry.

I don’t remember exactly what I told good old Perry, but knowing my mumbling, fumbling tendencies when potential conflict is in the air, I kept it short. It didn’t matter. Perry didn’t, the pizzas didn’t, the T-shirt didn’t. All that mattered was getting out of my tiny, sparsely furnished, off-white apartment and back to Batts Lane, to Sara’s house.

Thoughts screamed through my head as I rifled through the shirts hanging in my closet that night. The thoughts were conflicted and confusing, much like my ability to pick out a shirt.

Could I survive without my minimum wage pizza boy job?

Couldn’t wear the blue and white striped Polo oxford...the collar was too frayed (or was that in?).

What exactly had I said that made Sara laugh?

Couldn’t wear the Calvin Klein polo...weird stain on the left sleeve.

Was Domino’s on Airport Road hiring?

My questions remained unanswered, but I did manage to choose a shirt—an innocuous, dark blue button down. I combed my hair as best as I could, which wasn’t very helpful. The cheap ball caps Perry made his employees wear were murder on my already unruly thick black hair.

Two squirts of Grey Flannel to mask any lingering pizza odor, one on the neck, one on the wrist, and I was ready. I kicked a Hustler magazine that was lying on the floor out of view, under the couch, just in case the gods smiled upon me, and Sara graced my shoebox home that night.

I grabbed my keys off the table and headed for the door, ignoring my current thought: what would a beautiful woman like Sara see in a pizza delivery guy? The question was more troubling when I reminded myself that I was, as of twenty minutes prior to that moment, an unemployed pizza guy.

Again, it didn’t matter. Negative thoughts were suddenly secondary. My vision was tunneled. Only Sara mattered, I thought as I half-walked, half-skipped to my old, beat-up Honda Civic. Adrenaline coursed through me at an elevated flow as I peeled the Perry’s Pizza Palace magnet-sign off of the driver’s side door. I tossed the sign in the trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat, knowing (hoping, at least) that I was bound for some sort of pleasure that night.

I’ve heard the expression hindsight is always 20/20 a hundred times, but I wonder, even now, if that’s always accurate. You see, I have to wonder that because even if I knew then what the future had in store for me, I couldn’t say whether I would do anything differently.

Chapter 2

THE DRIVE TO SARA’S place was uneventful. "Shyness is nice, and shyness can stop you, from doing all the things in life you'd like to..." Morrissey sang from the speakers as her townhouse came into view. I made a mental note to myself, more of a desperate plea to my psyche, really, to not let shyness ruin my night.

I pulled into the drive and purposely chose an out-of-the-way parking space along the side of her building, which consisted of three town homes. There were some final, obsessive checks on myself I had to do before I marched the last nervous steps to a new girl's door.

From my glove compartment I withdrew a tin of Altoids mints and tossed one into my mouth, and, after a moment of thought, followed it with a second. I dug around in the glove box again and came out with my Pepto caplets. I worked two free from their foil wrapper, and the nasty pink foamy taste followed the Altoids. My nervous stomach, usually swimming with rum and Coke, had caused many visits to barroom bathroom stalls that would make a grown man wince. That must be avoided at all costs.

My imagination of the night without Pepto went wild...

Sara, I’ll be right back, I’d tell her, my bowels churning, aching for sweet relief.

Okay, Adam, she’d say, smiling sweetly.

Fifteen minutes pass, and she realizes I’m sitting on a toilet in a bar. Goodbye, Adam.

The chalky pink caplets weren’t optional.

Almost immediately, I became paranoid that she might actually smell the Pepto on my breath. That is, of course, if she ever got close enough to smell my breath.

So, one more Altoid went in. Just in case.

Breath and stomach in order, I moved on to the rearview mirror. My hair, aside from its normal unwieldy appearance, was okay. Nothing foreign in my teeth. I had tweezed away the uni-brow earlier that day. A nose check yielded nothing obtrusive and no visible hairs. I smiled a couple of times at myself and studied my reflection.

Here goes nothing.

I opened my door and started to get out of my car. I stood up in the open doorway of the car when I realized I was being watched.

Hey there.

It was Sara. She had a small dog on a leash next to her. Had she seen me perform my ritualistic acts of boy-meets-girl timidness? I could feel my face redden just a little.

Hi, I stammered, How long have you been standing there?  She was gorgeous. My palms moistened with sweat; my nerves prickled. How did I swing this?

I watched her walk towards me and had a brief flashback to earlier in the evening.

It had been a busy night at work, and I didn’t look forward to any more deliveries. After returning to the Palace from a run that landed me a 49-cent tip for a twenty-seven dollar order (I mentally noted the address on that delivery, determined to push all future runs to that house off on someone else), things had slowed down a bit. I found a few minutes to duck out back with one of the phone girls, Heather, for a cigarette.

Heather and I got along pretty well, and we always had good conversations at work. She wasn’t quite the standard, magazine-cover definition of beautiful, but she was definitely not homely or plain. There was something sexy about her, though, driven mostly by her extremely bright blue eyes (nobody knew for sure, but the general assumption was colored contacts). The blue in her eyes contrasted her tan skin nicely, and she always had a big smile on her face.

She was smiling as we smoked and joked behind the Palace. The topic of conversation for that particular five-minute block of time had been Perry’s annoying habit of rubbing his generous gut, which stretched his red T-shirt to the limit, against the female workers’ bodies every time he walked by. Heather was mock shuddering, telling me it feels like a big, wet Nerf ball. It gives me nightmares.  She pleaded with me, help...save me from the pervert. We enjoyed a good laugh at that.

We were finishing up our smokes when Perry opened the back door and poked his bald head out. The happy mood was instantly transformed into a tense moment. A quick glance between us communicated our dread at whatever Perry could possibly have in mind this time.

He looked at me with his beady brown eyes and said, Come on, Fluke, quit screwing off. I sent John and Kevin home, so you’re the only one left tonight.

A sinking feeling spread in my gut. I had hoped to get off a little early and stop off at the Tune Hole for a little CD shopping. Now, as the only delivery guy left, it meant I was closing. As a result, I could plan on being home by 11:30 at the earliest, a full ninety minutes after the Tune Hole locked up. Another quick glance at Heather yielded a sympathetic look, and I turned to Perry.

Shit, Perry, it’s too early. How am I going to handle all the deliveries by myself? I was getting angry.

He stared at Heather as he spoke to me. You’ll be fine. There are never more than two or three orders after this time of night. Now, go get the delivery for Batts Lane and get outta here.  His eyes were glued to Heather’s T-shirt, specifically the area where her T-shirt stretched over her breasts.

Wow...just go ahead and lick your chops, Mr. Obvious.

Yeah, whatever, I said, head down, defeated. My hatred for Perry swelled inside of me, growing, gaining weight, like a sponge soaking up water.

I went inside and grabbed the red vinyl delivery bag (Keeps your pizza oven fresh! it proclaimed) and headed for the door. The address was 1922 Batts Lane, and the name on the ticket was Sara, which had always been one of my favorite names for a woman. I always pictured beautiful women, long hair, smooth tan skin, perfect white teeth, when I heard the name Sara. Where this inexplicable vision came from, I had no idea, as the only Sara that I had ever actually known was short, with a strange Liza Minelli-like bob haircut, pale skin, and yellow teeth from too many cigarettes and too much coffee. She had been pretty much a total opposite of what I envisioned for the medium cheese pizza Sara on Batts Lane.

I climbed into my Civic and realized that I had never actually met a Sara that fulfilled my vision.

Of course, that all changed that night.

My flashback ended as she walked towards me, her strange little dog bouncing on his leash, little doggy toenails clicking on the concrete. I looked down at the dog, trying to figure out what breed it was, when Sara spoke.

He’s a Chihuahua. His name is Killer. she smiled and I saw straight, white teeth. Sara teeth, I thought to myself.

I cleared my throat and looked at her eyes. She had big, pale green eyes, and they were beautiful. Even the white part around the iris was brighter than I had seen on anyone before.

Out of nowhere, I thought: the white part is called the sclera.

You, uh, read my mind, I joked. My ability to talk had faded slightly. I felt the adrenaline kick into overdrive, picking up the pace through my body.

She laughed and used her free hand to push a stray strand of long, light brown hair back over her ear. The gesture was so cute that I felt compelled to give her a big hug, or just touch her in some way. Who was this beautiful woman, and what business did I have standing here talking to her?

A bout of self-consciousness hit me suddenly. I stopped smiling in order to conceal my nicotine-stained teeth. I imagined that I could feel the very weight of the bags under my eyes, which were dull and perpetually puffy from lack of sleep and hangovers past. I felt my fingernails in the palm of my hand and realized that they badly needed to be clipped.

Attempting to avoid an anxiety attack, I squatted down to get a closer look at Killer and pet him, but he shied from my outstretched hand and moved behind Sara’s legs. Her tan calves extended from the bottom of a maroon-colored casual-looking dress. The calves were perfect. There were none of those scars that women sometimes get from shaving; there were no varicose veins. They were just smooth and tan and almost shiny from some expensive lotion she had probably spent several minutes applying. I pushed away this creepy vision I had of my socks sliding down my pale calves, leaving flurries of dry skin flakes floating around them.

How did you get out of work so fast? she asked. It was only about an hour ago that you were standing on my porch with a nice, hot pizza for me. I didn’t expect you for at least another hour.

Dammit. Now I looked overanxious (I was overanxious, but it was bad form to appear so to a beautiful woman). I struggled internally, wondering what to tell her.

I, uh, quit. Uh, my job, the words fell out of my mouth haltingly, like drops from a kinked water hose.

What? You quit? She looked genuinely shocked, and I was sort of sorry I told her.

Yeah. Um, I didn’t really like the job, and, well, I was mad at my boss, anyway. So, I went home and called him and told him to, uh, take this job and shove it.  I said the last bit in my best redneck accent, trying to imitate the old country song. It was a lie (not to mention awful singing), but I couldn’t remember what I had told Perry, and it was no doubt pathetic and unworthy of Sara’s ears. She giggled briefly at my impromptu display of stupidity, but my nerves were still sizzling, and I was still an overflowing well of self-doubt. I watched as she reached a hand down to her hyper dog, calming him with only the slightest touch.

Hmm, she started, standing, a thoughtful look on her face. How long have you worked there?

Um, about seven months, I said sheepishly.

And I was your last delivery, huh? she asked, smiling coyly. A brief glimpse of white teeth between red lips. I was smitten.

Yes, you were, I told her, realizing how that might have sounded and not caring.

Well, then, that’s a good thing. How about we go out and get a drink to celebrate? She asked. I watched a thin gold bracelet slide from halfway up her forearm down to her wrist. I thought about how much I loved little things like that.

That sounds perfect, I said, and it did. I began thinking of quiet bars where we could sit and hear each other talk. I prayed she wouldn’t suggest any type of dance club. Ten seconds of watching Adam Fluke flailing like an idiot on the dance floor, and it would end up being another lonely night for me.

Great, she said. She looked down at Killer, and I buried my hands in my pockets. Several seconds passed with both of us pretending to stare at the dog, the ground, my car, anything. The silence between us grew rapidly, increasing in size exponentially, becoming almost a living thing. My insides were swelling, moving, telling me that panic mode wasn’t far away, and then she spoke.

Listen, Adam, she started, I know this is an awkward moment. I guess I came on kind of strong at the door earlier. I didn’t mean to, and I feel a little strange here myself. She watched Killer as he walked around her legs, wrapping the leash around those lovely calves.

It’s okay...actually, I’m glad you... I began. I was relieved, not only by what she said, but also by the fact that she had said anything.

Let’s just look at each other, acknowledge that this is awkward for both of us, and promise to relax. I want to enjoy myself tonight, not just play a small talk game with the best-looking guy I’ve seen in months. She said this quickly, and my heart started thudding in my chest at the last part.

Best looking guy? Months? Was she talking about me, or did she want me to pick up a friend? I was used to women being nice to me to get closer to my friend Sean, who was blessed with the all-American good looks, the charm, and the charisma. I just didn’t have this kind of luck.

Don’t blow it, stupid. My grandmother always said, Never look a gift horse in the mouth, boy. 

We stared at each other, and I said to her, I promise to just relax and have fun with you, Sara. The words came out easier this time.

A smile spread across her face, her eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands together quickly. Yay! she exclaimed. Let me put Killer inside the house and grab my purse, and we’ll be off for a good time.

I watched her turn around and bounce over to her front door. A deep breath escaped me, and I felt weak. I leaned back against the car, and wondered what was going on. I felt like I had been removed from my league, a league that comprised slightly overweight women, women with rotten teeth, women with bad breath. Somehow I had crossed the line and entered the realm of beautiful women, and I was worried about blowing it.

I reached into the car through the still-open door for a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a lungful of smoke. I briefly worried that she would see me smoking and disgusted by my habit, call a halt to this dream of mine, but I told myself that I was going to relax, as promised. Then, I took another long drag and blew three wobbly, wafting smoke rings. Oh, well, I thought. If she sees me, she sees me.

I heard her door open, then shut. I glanced up and saw her back as she locked the door. Instinctively, I cupped the cigarette in my palm, until she turned around and I saw a thin white cigarette between her long, tan fingers.

The entire night was ahead of me, and I didn’t know where it was going.

AS IT TURNS OUT, SARA didn't want to eat, and neither did I, so we decided to go straight out for drinks. I had always found eating to be a hindrance, when I wanted to drink, anyway. The two didn’t mix well with me if I ate initially, at the beginning of the night. At the end of the night would be a different story. I normally found myself craving food, like a junkie craves his fix, at the end of one of my drinking sprees.

We found ourselves parked along the street about 15 minutes later, just outside of Cherry Street Pub. It was a drinker's bar, but not an alcoholic’s sanctuary. It hosted a twenty- and thirty-something crowd, and (thankfully) had no dance floor. People were there to drink, talk, listen to music. I had been there before, and it was my kind of bar. We chose a corner booth near the bar and sat down.

Hi, I'm Amy, the girl with red-framed glasses said when she came over to our table, What can I get you guys? 

Two shots of Hot Damn, Amy, Sara replied, taking charge, ordering for both of us, and two Killian's.  She turned to me and smiled. Good?

Perfect, I told her. It was perfect.

WE SMOKED OUR CIGARETTES; we drank our beers. Every now and then we added a shot for good measure. Any residual nervousness slowly melted away with each swallow, and Sara DuBeau and I had good conversation, which eventually morphed into drunken conversation, but it was still good. We clicked on a variety of subjects: television (Seinfeld is the best show ever, we agreed), music (Depeche Mode still makes great music, but nobody listens, she said. Is this wonderful, wonderful woman for real?), and movies (Dead Poet’s Society is amazing!). It almost seemed as though we were clicking too well, if that’s possible...we liked so many of the same things. The night took on an ethereal, dreamlike quality for me as I realized this woman beside me, this beautiful woman, had done and said nothing wrong.

The intimidation factor I was feeling intensified when she told me about her education and her current job.

I took forever, around five years, to finish my degree. My major was history, with a minor in anthropology, she told me over our fifth beer.

And I could barely muster up enough will to stay in community college the short amount of time that I did.

Slightly dull from the alcohol, I asked her, So, uh, what does that make you?

Jesus, you must look like a genius, Adam-boy.

What does that make me?  She paused, as if contemplating. Well, it nearly made me unemployed. A history major with an anthropology minor isn’t as marketable as it may sound.

The waitress, Amy, came over, perky as a kitten, and asked, You guys all right, or can I getcha something?

Two more Killian’s, Sara answered instantly. The woman seemed to have drunkenness planned.

Okey-dokey, Amy chirped, and ran off with her tray.

Old Amy Red-glasses and I had something in common, she said, watching Amy as she disappeared behind the bar. I ended up waiting tables for three months with my degree hanging on the wall at my apartment. She seemed a bit distant as she said this, staring off at the bar, but not really looking at anything. I gulped down the last of my beer and prodded her. All I wanted to do was watch her and listen to her talk.

And? After the waitressing gig?

Oh, she said, turning her head back to me, wrapping her tan fingers around the beer glass in front of her. Well, that was when I lived in Texas.

You lived in Texas? Inexplicably, this intrigued me. I knew better than to assume most people living in Florida were natives or had lived there even half of their lives. Nearly everyone in the city was a transplant, though normally from somewhere in the mid-western or northeastern part of the country.

Yep, I’m a born and raised Texan, she said in an exaggerated southern drawl. Got my book learnin’ at The University of Texas at Austin, by gawwd.

We both laughed, and I thought to myself that I never would have guessed her to be from Texas. She had no trace of any accent, much less a southern drawl.

And you ended up here how...? I led her.

Well, like I said, when I graduated college, I worked as a waitress for a bit, but it was killing me. I hated that job. I’d come home sweaty, tired, pockets heavy with change from tips, and see my degree hanging on the wall and want to scream. All I wanted to do was work in a museum, something with history, relics, artifacts, and all that gee-whiz kind of stuff. I just wanted things to change, I mean, I was miserable, and there was no way I was going to make a dent in my student loan debts working as a waitress. She downed the last of her beer and I made a mental note that, ounce for ounce, she had matched me in alcohol consumption.

Does that make her a drunk, or does it mean I’m slowing down in my old age?

Amy came back to the table and set two frosty glasses of beer down on cardboard coasters, picked up our nearly overflowing ashtray, and dumped it onto a napkin on her tray.

You two let me know if you need anything else, okay? She smiled as we nodded politely at her, then she was gone, making her rounds.

Sara went on with her story. I had a professor that I’m fairly certain had a huge crush on me. He was a sweet old man, but couldn’t keep his eyes still when he talked to me.  I know how he felt, I thought to myself.