A Knight in a Daze

By Brian R. Bennett

A Knight in a Daze is the humor-filled story of Ray Rutledge, traveling salesman and would-be knight in shining armor. At weekend Renaissance gatherings, he can be found wearing chainmail and wielding a gleaming sword. Monday through Friday, however, finds Ray calling on customer after customer. What his business life lacks in excitement he makes up for with a vivid imagination. Rescuing a damsel in distress is his favorite fantasy.
Then, late one night on the road, while sitting on his motel bed in his underwear reading his favorite book, his favorite fantasy literally comes knocking on his door. No, make that pounding. Flinging the door open, Ray finds a gorgeous Hispanic woman, who grabs his t-shirt with both hands and says, "You got to help me get out of here. But first you better put on your pants."
Pants on, Ray and the woman peel out into the midnight darkness as fast as an automatic transmission Japanese import can peel. On their way to California, Ray must dodge a questionable sheriff, win a battle over toilet paper, and survive a flash flood among other unpredictable events. Not to mention, they are pursued by criminals out to recapture the woman. And, as desirable as she is, Ray must follow the strict hands-off Code of Chivalry.
Rescuing a damsel in distress ain't that easy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098345204

Book preview

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Characters in this story are totally fictional and do not depict any actual persons or events.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

© 2020, by Brian R. Bennett

Chewed Socks Press, 1226 Hollow Ash Lane, Katy, TX, 77450

Print ISBN: 978-1-09834-519-8

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09834-520-4

Many thanks to Isabel and the excellent staff at BookBaby.

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

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 1

Sir Raymond of Rutledge

Sir Raymond, noble Knight of the Realm, swordsman extraordinaire, and all-around good fellow wondered if he would have to pick vulture feathers out of his Honda’s grill that evening. Up ahead, smack in the middle of his narrow two-lane highway, a gathering of the huge black birds was busily feasting upon a flattened armadillo, the official State Roadkill of Texas. With a beep of his horn and a touch of his brakes, Sir Raymond gave them time to get out of his way. Reluctantly, they flapped their wings just enough to give them lift-off. One of them, however, could not even bother to do that, it merely hopped off to the side of the road right before Sir Raymond whizzed by.

Sir Raymond, also known as Ray Rutledge, single early thirties traveling salesman now had an amusing story of vulture insolence to tell his printing paper customers. Through his open windows an early fall breeze ruffled his auburn hair and brought with it the scent of deep East Texas piney woods. He sneezed. Had he remembered to bring along his antihistamine? If so, he’d better pop one at the next stop. Until then he’d take caffeine. He reached for his still steaming cup of dark roast, freshly brewed at Doctor Java’s on the Parkerville courthouse square. He took a sip. Ahhh. A wide smile spread underneath his neatly trimmed mustache.

The hot liquid inspiration teased his taste buds and stimulated pleasant thoughts of the past weekend’s renaissance fair. Prior to their mock battle, he and Sir Bernard (produce manager for a local grocery chain) had flipped a coin to see who would win that day. Ray won. Their realistic medieval swordplay, with its clang of metal against metal, drew enthusiastic applause from the surrounding audience. As the pre-destined winner, Ray had earned the victor’s complimentary flagon of honey mead at the I’m In the Mood for Mead booth served to him by Ingrid, the busty Viking wench with her chainmail bra lined with rabbit fur. It had been a perfect weekend.

Well, nearly perfect. If Julie had been with him it would have been completely perfect. Together they could have wandered hand in hand through medieval streets surrounded by artisan booth after artisan booth. Undoubtedly, she would have found the exotic selections at Ye Olde Potions for All Occasions very exciting. With her blond hair, blue eyes, and cute spray of freckles across nose and cheeks, she would have made the perfect princess.

Seconds later, time and place gave way to Ray’s imagination.

. . . Icy fear clutched at Princess Julie as she ran through the dark and dangerous forest. Dense tangles of brush and limbs clawed at her, ripped her silk gown, tore off her tiara. She stumbled. Steaming foul breath heated the back of her neck. Her scream ended in a choking sob.

Fear naught my lady for I, Sir Raymond, have arrived. As if by Merlin’s magic, he suddenly stood before her.

Her eyes, heart, and arms reached out to him. Oh, Sir Raymond, save me. I beg you. Save me, and I shall be yours.

For the slightest of moments his gaze lingered on her heaving cleavage. However, such thoughts would have to wait. The Code of Chivalry must be obeyed. Princess Julie would be returned safely home. Then, and only then, could such thoughts become actions.

Your wish is my command, my lady.

With a rasp of cold steel, he drew his shining blade from its scabbard and took his first step toward the vile unspeakable creature . . .

HONK!

Aaah! Ray yelped. Hot coffee fumbled onto his pants as his rear end momentarily left the comfort of the driver’s seat.

Gritting his teeth against the dark roast pain, he checked his rearview mirror. A primer-gray pickup with a grill full of large black feathers was attempting to mate with his tailpipe. Inside its cab, what appeared to be a pair of escapees from some federal idiot assistance program were laughing their heads off. Ray could have sworn he heard dueling banjos.

The pickup swerved into the left lane and zoomed up alongside of Ray. Not only was Ray’s zipper soaked and steaming, he now faced an unpleasant choice—to look or not to look. He had watched enough one-star movies on cable to understand that eye contact with backwoods cretins would most likely result in something unpleasant. But so did not making eye contact. Crap, he said, glancing in the general direction of the miniature Prince Valiant protecting his dashboard. Unfortunately, Prince Val was fresh out of advice. Ray turned to look.

The toothy grin on the guy riding shotgun indicated that a dental appointment was several years overdue. The guy pointed at Ray while the driver goosed the gas, making the pickup leap forward and back again. In case Ray failed to take the hint, the driver goosed it twice.

Ray now had two clear options. He could accept the obvious challenge—floor his gas and a dangerous race would be on. Or he could do the logical, practical thing—drive like his grandmother.

Grandmother won. Ray eased his Honda back a length, hoping he might give the idiots the impression that they were actually out-racing him. However, they hadn’t just fallen off some okra truck. They dropped back even with Ray.

After a hundred yards or so of being nearly joined at their door panels, the guy riding shotgun yelled something at Ray that the breeze blew away. But there was no mistaking the guy’s middle finger. He was ambidextrous—he had one in each hand. Point made, the pickup cut right in front of Ray, almost nicking his fender. Then, with an explosion of black exhaust, it rocketed away leaving Ray behind in a cloud of smoke and a wet crotch. The pickup soon sped around a curve and out of sight.

Filled with equal doses of anger and humiliation, a couple of miles went by before Ray summoned up his usual antidote for such things . . . The taller of the two fools laughed as the rotten-toothed one flipped a middle finger.

His sword would not be needed. His fists would be enough for these two louts. Sir Raymond took the first step toward them . . .

It was lunch time when Ray pulled into the crowded parking lot of Uncle Buck’s Home Cookin’ restaurant. His coffee stain had dried up and thankfully had blended well with his dark slacks. Consequently, he had not been embarrassed during his morning’s sales calls.

Ray walked through the front entrance and waved at Uncle Buck, whose head and thick shoulders showed mountain-like above the order-up counter. Spatula in hand, Uncle Buck waved back, which caused a bit of greasy something to go flying. It landed on the tractor cap of a man seated at the long lunch counter. In vigorous debate with another customer about which commercial brand of hot sauce was more likely to make your tongue sweat, the man never noticed.

A spot at the lunch counter opened up when another customer, wearing camo from head to toe, stood to leave. The man left a short stack of ones for a tip and a scattering of biscuit crumbs next to his empty bowl of jalapeno chili. Ray took the man’s place on the red vinyl swivel stool, which faced a row of six coffee pots on the back counter. None of them was decaf.

An attractive fortyish Hispanic waitress set a fresh mug of steaming coffee and a chaser of ice water in front of Ray as she scooped up her tip, swept the crumbs onto the floor, and disappeared the empty bowl and spoon. How’s my favorite travelin’ man? she said.

Fine, Juanita. How are you?

Never better, never worse, Hon. What’s new with you?

Not much, just the same old thing. Customers to see, orders to turn in.

Everybody’s got to do what they got to do.

Yeah. I suppose.

What’s the matter, Hon? You look kinda down.

"Oh, I got harassed this morning by some good ol’ boys in a pickup. They had bad teeth and a loud horn. I have to admit that was definitely not the same old thing." His attempted chuckle fell flat.

You all right? Her expression echoed her concern.

Oh, yeah. The only thing hurt was my pride. I’m just glad nobody else saw it. It was embarrassing.

Setting cream and sugar in front of him, Juanita said, If that’s all, you’re lucky then. You gotta watch it nowadays. There’s a lot of crazies out there.

Yeah, I know, Ray said, as he poured a tablespoon of sugar into his mug, but I feel like I should have done something about it.

Oh, no. Don’t you think that for a minute. Those good ol’ boys can be pretty mean when they want to. Juanita said, as she handed him a spoon from a Mason Jar full of mismatched utensils.

Yeah, but —

Butt is what I’m talkin’ about. They could’ve kicked yours from here to Kirbyville.

Staring at the steam rising out of his mug, Ray absentmindedly stirred in the sugar. Yeah, I suppose. Then looking up, he focused on Juanita. Didn’t you ever want to do something crazy? Something you wanted to do, but couldn’t, or shouldn’t, or wouldn’t? Something you wish you’d have done, but didn’t? Maybe even something dangerous?

Crossing her arms, Juanita gave Ray a look that had more than a touch of attitude. You mean somethin’ like Double O Seven in his fancy sports car?

Yeah. Ray’s stirring picked up speed, causing several large drops to slop onto the countertop. Or like the Knights of the Round Table. You know, kicking some medieval ass. Not that a nice lady like you would ever think of kicking anybody’s ass.

Oh, you’re wrong about that. I got five brothers. She slapped a napkin down on top of his spill. Look Hon, you ain’t even a Single O Seven and all you got is a Honda with an automatic shift. And you sure ain’t sittin’ at no round table that I can see.

Ray acknowledged her depressingly unromantic opinion with a weak nod, then washed it down with hot coffee, stirred, not shaken. Immediately wishing he’d taken a sip instead of a gulp, he grabbed his glass of ice water.

Juanita looked off into a distance somewhere over Ray’s head. I wanted to be a professional dancer once. I was pretty good.

Setting down his glass, Ray managed to gasp, What stopped you?

Juanita tucked a strand of graying hair behind her ear. Things. Stuff. I got a full-time job after I graduated from high school. Back then, everybody in my family had to make some money to help out at home. Things kept happenin’. I got married. Had kids. That kind of thing, you know. She shrugged. The timin’ was never right.

Ray nodded. It wasn’t practical, was it?

Yeah. Practicality. That’s what happened. Erasing the past with a bright smile, Juanita said, You want the usual?

Yeah. The usual.

You got it, Hon.

Off to place his order, Juanita left Ray to watch the steam rise out of his mug.

Chapter 2

So Predictable

Thursday morning Ray swung his Honda in a wide arc into his designated parking space next to the Phillips Paper Company. It was a new day, one filled with promise. The invisible message board at his office had informed everyone that Julie had broken up with her boyfriend over a month ago. The time was ripe for Ray to make his personal sales pitch. Briefcase in one hand and a small unlit cigar in the other, he strode to the front entrance. At the bottom of the front steps, he paused to visualize an open road ahead.

. . . Julie’s eyes twinkled. I’d have broken up with my boyfriend sooner if I’d known you wanted to ask me out.

Visualization complete, Ray bounded up the steps two at a time. He flung the door open.

Morning, Ray, the chubby bookkeeper and front office Dear Abby said. Welcome back.

Good morning, Beth, he replied, waving his cigar hand before glancing toward the vacant reception desk. Where’s Julie?

She went to the warehouse to get some ancient file folders. She should be right back.

Right on cue, Julie appeared carrying a stack of well-worn manila folders.

Do you hear what I hear, Julie? Ray said, his voice radiating positivity. It’s the King’s trumpeters calling us to this coming weekend’s renaissance fair. Would you like to go? We’d have a great time.

You mean go to that silly place where grown men and women pretend that they’re knights and princesses? That place?

A flashing sign screamed DETOUR! ROAD AHEAD WASHED OUT. Ray made a sharp U-turn. You like Italian food, don’t you? There’s that new Italian restaurant in town. How about going there?

Julie plopped the stack of folders down on her desk. Avoiding Ray’s eyes, his encouraging smile, and his cigar, she said, I don’t think so. I don’t think the two of us would work out so well. Sorry. Saving her from voicing any messy details, her desk phone chose that instant to ring. She snatched it up. Phillips Company, may I help you? Hi, Mr. Cracklin. What can we do for you this morning?

Faced with defeat, a face with blue eyes and a cute spray of freckles, Ray wavered a moment like a doomed forest tree right before a lumberjack yelled, Timber! His shield of positivity had been pierced by her sharp lance of negativity. Had his cigar been lit, it would have been snuffed out. With heavy steps, he turned and retreated around a corner and down the carpeted hallway toward the salesman’s office.

She’d refused to go out with him. Why? Did he need mouthwash? Had his deodorant failed? What didn’t Julie like about him? He had a good job and was good at it. He made good money. Good enough to take exotic vacations, like the one last year to Alaska where he’d nearly frozen his rear off and learned to hate camping. A look in his bathroom mirror every morning told him that he was decent looking with no gut hanging over his belt like some guys his age. So, what was the reason?

That burning question set him on fire. It demanded an answer to put out the flames. A good salesman always uncovered his customer’s rejection in order to overcome it. And overcome it he damn well would!

Ray spun on his heel so hard that the friction nearly burnt a hole in the synthetic carpet. Shoulders squared, he marched back toward the reception desk. Nearing the front office once more, he heard Beth’s voice from just around the hallway corner. Why won’t you go out with Ray? He’s cute, smart, and our best salesman.

Red light! Ray stopped dead in his tracks.

I know that, Julie said.

So what’s wrong with him? Those stupid cigars?

Cigars are nothing but smoldering turds. But it’s not that. I guess he’s just so . . . The shrug of her shoulders was almost audible. . . . predictable.

Intolerable! Like Superman flying over some tall building to drop in among evil doers, Ray leapt out from behind the corner in a single bound. He landed right in front of Julie, Beth, and the women’s restroom.

Julie yelped, Ah. Beth yelped, Shit. Both leapt several inches backward.

In a voice delivering a pronouncement from Mount Olympus, Ray said, I-am-not-predictable.

Even as unnerving as it might be when the object of a private conversation catapults from behind a corner to land practically in one’s face, Julie was able to quickly compose herself. Arms clenched together across her chest and eyes riveted on Ray, she said, Male denial. So predictable. Then with a flip of blond hair, a curl of red lips, and a dismissive huff, she stiff-armed the women’s restroom door and stormed inside.

His cigar aimed and ready to emphasize a decisive rebuttal, Ray stared open-mouthed at the women’s room door.

Beth shook her head. Pathetic. The women’s room door swung shut behind her.

A subtle cough brought Ray back from the world of stunned disbelief. He turned to face one of the older secretaries standing behind him. He said, "I am not predictable. Holding his cigar in front of her face for close examination, he added, And what’s wrong with cigars? This one was soaked in rum for extra flavor."

I don’t drink. She too disappeared into the women’s room.

The quicksand of negativity began to suck Ray under. He had to escape before the only thing left of him was his cigar. Executing an about-face with military precision, he turned the corner from whence he’d catapulted and marched down the hallway.

After a couple yards his shoulders sagged and he slowed to the pace of a dead man walking. The girl of his daydreams had branded him. His forehead practically sizzled with a big scarlet P.

But even in the glare of unpleasant enlightenment, he knew Julie was right. She’d nailed him. Her verbal hammer pounded his deserving nail. He was in a rut. A predictable rut. Hell, rut was even part of his name. But weren’t predictable ruts foundations of business. He couldn’t just quit his job. What could he do to dig himself out, to become unpredictable? Take up sky diving? Get a full-color tattoo? Learn to speak Latin?

Ray. Come in here.

Finding himself just outside the open doorway to Mr. Phillips’ office, Ray looked in. His boss gestured to him. Come on in.

It was show time. Ray’s smile magically appeared. The rest of his face joined in. Stepping inside the boss’s office, he said, Good morning.

When are you traveling out to East Texas again? Phillips asked.

I’m scheduled to go again this coming Monday morning . . . as usual.

Good. I need you to cut your trip short, Phillips said. Be back for sure by lunch next Wednesday. I’ve got an important meeting set up with the United mill reps. I’m thinking about taking on their complete line of printing paper and they’re thinking about taking us on. So, I want you to be here to give your input. Will that be a problem?

No. I’ll make some adjustments and make it work.

Good deal, Lucille, Phillips said, scratching his flattop. Watch it out there on the road. I don’t want my best salesman to get creamed by a logging truck.

You got it. No cream of salesman.

And hey, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Phillip’s usual jocular send-off didn’t leave much room for maneuvering considering that he had a bad knee and was pushing seventy-five with a heavy hand.

Don’t worry. I won’t. I’m . . . predictable.

Grinning and giving Ray a thumbs up, Phillips said, That’s one of your best qualities.

Ray was not surprised to hear that assessment. All the office staff knew that Mr. Phillips had never trusted the unpredictable ever since the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly. Rumor had it that Mr. Phillips had gone to the barbershop the very next day. His jelly roll that merged with a duck tail disappeared. His down-to-earth, no nonsense flattop had been there ever since.

Giving Mr. Phillips a thumbs up of his own, Ray turned and disappeared down the hall. He entered the large office he shared with three other salesmen. This morning, however, he had the room to himself. Seated at his desk, he waited for the magic wand of enthusiasm to jab him. A motivational speaker a few years back had given Ray and other attendees a thought to inspire them—before each sales call they ‘had seven seconds to get excited.’ Staring at his desk phone, Ray didn’t think he could get excited even if he had seven hours, or seven days. However, his sales quota would not get made by itself. A salesman has to do what a salesman has to do, Ray said out loud to a wall poster exclaiming the joys of using its brand of printing paper.

Clearing his throat and winding up his positive voice, he reached out to pick up his desk phone.

Chapter 3

The Black Eye

That evening, to escape the pain of being branded and nailed, Ray phoned a couple of women he knew who might be able to nurse his wounds. But they already had dates for the weekend and strongly suggested that he should have called sooner. Being a gentleman, he’d refrained from telling them that he would have called sooner but they were second choices. And telling Amanda, the paint department manager at Lowe’s, that she was third choice would have been exceptionally tactless. As it was, she had other plans. However, she did suggest that he drop by to see her at work on Saturday morning. That would be when her department was having a sale on exotic colors such as Blueberry Excitement and Explosive Tomato. She’d told him that she would give him a manager’s special price on anything he’d buy. He’d said that he would think about it.