A Type of Hunger

By Pamela D. Beverly

A Type of Hunger, A Novella, is a story about a man, Nate Hunter, who loses his job, which is a major part of his being. He doesn't know how to live a life of unemployment, no matter how long or short. His life becomes something even he doesn't recognize.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pamela D. Beverly
• Release date: Mar 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9780998673264

Pamela D. Beverly

Pamela D. Beverly is a management analyst employed at a training branch in Washington, DC. She resides in Fort Washington, Maryland, and considers herself a student of human nature. This is her first novel.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I acknowledge the Lord, who, especially through this year of the pandemic, allowed me to continue to write. A special thanks to my editor, Paulette Nunlee of Five Star Proofing; my cover artist, Dar Albert of Wicked Smart Designs; and to my formatter, Tamara Cribley of The Deliberate Page. I appreciate all that you do.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

About the Author

Other Books by Pamela D. Beverly

Chapter One

Nate Hunter glanced in exasperation at the clock overhead on the glossy, gun-metal gray concrete block of the garage where he worked. It always seems like the last hour takes forever to get here and then forever to finish, he fumed to himself.

At the end of the day, he said goodbye to his co-workers, punched out and headed home in the late-January evening traffic. Movement on the Southeast-Southwest Freeway was almost nonexistent. Millions of tiny snowflakes had fallen throughout the previous night and off and on the entire day. The Washington, D.C. metropolitan area was semi-paralyzed from it, a common occurrence whenever there was a substantial snowfall and even when there wasn’t. New Englanders got a good laugh out of it—what did D.C. know about snow?

More than two hours later, Nate slammed into his apartment. Heading straight for the cheery kitchen and then the refrigerator, he set about popping the top on a twelve-ounce can of beer. I really need this today, he mumbled, flipping off the kitchen light and making a beeline to the living room. Once there, he stalked toward his favorite, kind of ugly but comfortable paisley-upholstered recliner and the remote, settling down for a night of constant weather report interruptions among the otherwise sundry fare. His friends never failed to give him grief about it every time they came over, but he didn’t give a damn. He paid his rent; they didn’t, although it did get under his skin at times.

Where in the hell did you get that recliner? Even The Purple One wouldn’t even have wanted that thing in the Paisley Palace.

His cell phone rang on the wooden coffee table and snapped Nate back to the present. I see you made it home, the male voice on the other end remarked. It was his best friend of more than a few years, Elliott Close.

Yeah. Took me over two hours. The streets are really icing up. It’s treacherous out there man. He aimed the remote at the T.V. on the console and turned the sound down a bit. How about you? How long did it take you to get home?

Elliott laughed. No time at all ‘cause I didn’t go in today. I didn’t feel like dealing with that mess, man. You get to work and that’s all they talk about—what time the supervisor’s gonna let ‘em go home.

If they let you go home early, Nate huffed. Mine didn’t.

You work for some slave drivers anyway, Elliott didn’t hesitate to reply and then laughed.

He could care less if my ass ended up wrapped around a tree, Nate agreed, just as long as it’s on my way home from work as opposed to on my way to work. He took a swig of beer.

So, what’s up for tonight? Whadayu gonna do over there?

Nate laughed, but it came out sounding more like a snort. Whadayu think? Hell, I’m marooned up here on this damn hill with some bald-ass tires until next payday. What are you up to?

I’m trying to organize a card game. Got some movies lined up on the DVR, too, even some nasty ones—

Well, you can hold those, Nate said, suppressing a belch. They don’t do much for me. Why look at what I can’t get my hands on? But you can count me in on the card game if you come and get me. You got four-wheel drive, man.

So do you. Just make sure you get some new tires.

Look, just get your butt over here and pick me up.

Hand over hand, Elliott proceeded to trounce the hell out of all who came to play. So, what’s up with you and Carla, man?

Nate continued to wear his version of a poker face even though they were playing spades. I’ve got no complaints.

Women ain’t good for nothing but what they got between their legs and what they can do for you with it. Sid Avery was a bespectacled guy with skin the shade of freshly laid tar. Wearing a striped, buttoned-down shirt and looking like a brother from Wall Street, he threw down his books with a loud snap.

Damn, man, I’d hate to be your girl, said Victor Enriquez. He was of African American and Puerto-Rican descent, sweet, charismatic and the youngest of the group. He was dressed like most of them, in casual clothes. They called him Vic or Pretty Rican.

Sid affected a few effeminate mannerisms and gave him the eye over his black horn-rimmed eyeglasses. You better be glad you aren’t, baby.

Everyone laughed, including Nate. Will both of y’all shut up? Vic, man, where are your books? You haven’t thrown down anything!

Victor promptly obliged.

Sid now directed his gaze at Nate. Over his specs, he said, You control the poontang, man. You can’t let the poontang control you.

Nate pushed up one of the sleeves of his sweatshirt, then stroked his five o’clock shadow. He didn’t feel like hearing Sid’s philosophy regarding members of the opposite sex. He couldn’t say he didn’t have a few chauvinistic views of his own, but Sid took it to the extreme and sometimes attempted to slide in a crack about Nate’s live-in girlfriend, Carla Pinkney. She was soft and curvy, just the way Nate liked her, so he didn’t put up with it whenever Sid started talking crap about her or thick women in general.

Nate’s gaze swept the stylish man-room of Elliott’s house. It was indeed a sexy, masculine room. To Nate, it didn’t look like a basement at all. It did remind him of what a club room in a posh Manhattan hotel might look like, all dark woods and plush carpet, full of mementos from Elliott’s travels and the days he played basketball at Georgetown University. It was also the only place in the house that his wife, Veronique, would allow him or any of the fellas to smoke. Nate threw down his books, barking, C’mon wit’ it!

Elliott managed to get Nate home through the now hard-packed, icy hills of snow in his midsized SUV. Nate’s apartment was in an old, but charming, rosy-hued brick building with only four units on each floor. The two-storied structure stood at the edge of town, a stone’s throw away from the Washington, D.C./Prince George’s County, Maryland line. It was ten minutes after one, and the streets were deserted, save for the die-hard determined or foolish individual trudging through the darkness or attempting to start up a car.

The frosty night air was razor-sharp; every sound amplified tenfold as the ice crunched underneath Nate’s boots once Elliott dropped him off at the snowy sidewalk leading to the entrance of the apartment complex. After a brief respite, it began snowing again. Upon arriving at his apartment, Nate began removing his smoked-filled clothing and headed toward the bathroom in the dark. After brushing his teeth, he took a quick shower and washed his hair. After drying himself, he snapped off the bathroom light and padded naked to the spacious bedroom that he shared with his girlfriend, Carla. He slid beneath the flannel sheet, shivering slightly.

She rolled over on her side toward him and snuggled into the crook of his muscular arm. I got your voicemail. Her voice was gravelly, her voluptuous body nice and warm. It was apparent she had been fast asleep. Have fun at Elliott’s?

"Yeah, it was all right. You know how it is when Sid and Vic get together—like something from Wild ‘N Out. Wall-to-wall insults. Did you get home all right?"

Yes. My co-worker Jesse gave me a ride home. I left my car at the job. He’s got a truck.

Yeah, and I know right now I’ve got bald tires on mine, Nate replied in a mock-angry tone against the top of her silk scarf-wrapped head. But you better not let me meet him—

Would you rather me get a ride from him or be stranded at work? Carla teased him back. Anyway, he’s about nineteen years old.

Those are the ones you gotta worry about. Nate chuckled, enjoying the smell of the fruity-flowery-scented body wash she showered with. What was it? Mmm, peach. Orchids? He didn’t know the difference; all he knew was that she smelled delicious. He kissed the side of her neck, still warm from sleep, then gently pushed her away so that he could sleep flat-out on his back, the way he liked best. Goodnight, baby.

Nate woke up the next day as he did every day, a few minutes before five o’clock. He didn’t really need an alarm, setting it mainly as a matter of ritual. He derived a measure of comfort performing routine tasks. They were things that he could control in his life, and he liked a sense of control. He was a little aggravated because he didn’t think he would be going to work on this day if the conditions were the way they were when he arrived home a couple of hours ago. But he did enjoy his job as an auto mechanic. It was something he was good at and had been doing since he was about sixteen years old, working on friends’ cars.

He low-crawled like an infantryman on the battlefield over the still-sleeping Carla to hit the button on top of the clock radio, shutting off the smooth voice of the radio announcer who was reading the day’s forecast as if he were whispering sweet nothings into his woman’s ear. How can somebody sound so damned cheerful and sexy at this hour of the morning? he muttered as he returned to his side of the bed.

Nate’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He got up and out of the beckoning bed, turning to look once more at Carla’s sleeping form in the darkness. He was horny, no doubt about it, but she had never moved, and he didn’t want her like that.

Girl could sleep through a train wreck, he thought, shaking his head and smiling to himself in the darkness. That’s all right, baby. You’ll make up for it later.

Nate made his way to the window to determine the verdict. It was still snowing. The silence was deafening, and he saw no movement outside whatsoever. He left the bedroom, snatching up his navy-blue-and-green-checkered bathrobe that lay at the foot of the bed and covered his nakedness. He closed the door behind him without making a sound. The apartment was chillier than Nate liked, so he made his way to the hallway, flicking on the wall light switch and raising the temperature of the thermostat. He flicked the light off and walked through the arch leading from the bedroom into the living room.

Grabbing the remote from where it lay on the coffee table after last night’s use, Nate clicked on the TV and then settled down on the sofa to watch the special early editions of the morning news which would be about what else—the weather.

As expected, on one news program, the weatherman stood in the frigid elements with earmuffs, but no hat or umbrella, reporting the forecast as the wind blew and the snow fell. As I said, Bill, the roads are virtually impassable. Although road crews have been out all night, they simply haven’t been able to keep up with the record amount of snow that has fallen overnight. Records are being set due to—

Nate turned off the television, picked up his cell phone and walked over to the window. He could now hear the annoying grating sound of ice scrapers and shovels as they made dubious progress in the battle with Old Man Winter. Ain’t nobody getting out of this place except on foot, he muttered, lifting a slat in the Venetian