Bryan’S Book of Stories

By Bryan Lambert

This book of short stories is Bryans second publication. His first book is a novel entitled Another American. Now this book shows further creativity. The reader will find enjoyment in these entertaining short stories. Whether read at lunch, bedtime, or any time, you will surely be delighted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524547974

Bryan Lambert

Bryan resides in Mill Valley, CA in a beautiful apartment for the disabled. He was paralyzed in a motorcycle accident when he was twenty-two years old, thirty-five years ago (as of this writing). He has maintained a positive outlook on life in spite of the many obstacles he has faced throughout these trying times. Writing and art are his favorite hobbies.

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Copyright © 2016 by Bobby Fordham.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/28/2016

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CONTENTS

1.   The Next-To-The-Last Big Race!

2.   Pepe’s Visit to America!

3.   Homer and Hank Hit It!

4.   Sam Sinks!

5.   Herb’s Habit!

6.   Willie Wakes!

7.   Bobby and Mike

8.   The Really Wild West!

9.   The Adventures Of Another American!

The Next-To-The-Last Big Race!

Two yellow-and-gray meadowlarks gripped tightly to the top strand of a barbed wire fence, light wind lifted their wings and tails. The birds listened to trucks pulling race cars toward the track; the sun was climbing. The birds whistled, and the roar grew closer.

Twelve auto carriers carrying twelve high-powered automobiles roared toward the quarter-mile blacktopped track. The meadowlarks fluttered their wings and then lifted in the wild blue yonder.

The roar was deafening, yet the racers continued toward the track. Circling in front of the stands, their engines went silent. Brad Billows took his automobile’s cover off and pulled his car’s transporter to the front of the empty bleachers. Smoothing his whiskers, he yawned, stretching to his right or left. Opening his transporter’s door, Brad hopped to the ground, slamming the door behind him; he wiped his palms on his faded jeans then walked to his powerful Chevrolet. The number 14 reflected the sunshine. Brad bunched the canvas in a wad and then tossed it under his carrier. Walking to the rear of his Chevrolet, he disconnected a bolt, holding the race car in place. The gate lowered, which safely let car number 14 roll. Reaching inside of the car, Brad steered beside the pit, where his crew was smiling and ready to start.

The other racers uncovered their cars, rolling them to their crews too. The second to crumple his cover was car number 66, Shane Sears. He was an overweight fellow, and his belly hung over the buckle holding up his dirty blue jeans. His beard was in need of a trim, and his mustache hid his stained smile. He bunched the cover and tossed it under his carrier and then removed chewing tobacco. Biting a chew, Shane chomped before returning the tobacco to his pocket, and his race car’s wheels were turned toward his pit crew. The awaiting crew helped roll car 66 to fill its tank with gasoline.

Car number 7 uncovered his car then rolled a Ford Thunderbird toward his pit crew. Frank Fordham had long hair he kept in a ponytail. He bunched his car’s cover and tossed it under the trailer. The sun was higher, and the drivers’ pit crews were all arriving, with their steaming drinks clasped in their hands. The mechanics were laughing, shoving each other and getting their tools. After the pit was arranged, his crew watched Frank hop through the window of his Ford.

When his gas tank held all its fuel, Mike (the head mechanic) capped the tank and took the can away. Frank’s crew stood behind the fast Ford and pushed. Frank held the clutch pedal to the floor and slammed his gear shifter in first. Ten feet from where they started pushing, Frank removed his foot, and the motor chugged until it warmed enough and roared. Tapping his accelerator, the spark plugs ignited more fuel, and the motor roared even louder.

The second in charge under Mike was Steve. Steve spit tobacco and said, That danged thing’s gonna win, or my name ain’t Steve! Draping his arm around his friend Robert’s shoulder, they walked to the pit as another driver roared past. Frank Fordham was rounding the turn when Shane slammed his gear in second, stomping his accelerator too. Shane’s rear wheels screamed, and smoke circled both the tires. He and his car neared the back turn, gaining speed. Shane’s car was nearing Frank’s automobile as the sun spied over the bleachers’ tops right in his eyes. Frank circled and was roaring at top speed, shifting gears from fourth back to third rapidly. Frank noticed Shane’s squinted eyes and sped right by.

Brad bumped Frank’s race car before he rounded the final turn, then Frank exited and roared to a halt in the front of his ecstatic crew. Pulling himself out, Frank rested on the window’s edge, saying, It’s pulling a little to the left. Mike, get your guys right. Frank stood beside the auto and then removed his helmet, reaching for a cold drink. As he tipped his head, soda trickled out the corners of his mouth. Frank finished what the cup contained and then crushed the paper like the he-man he was. Brad Billows raced around the track then to his pit crew to let them do their job. Fuel cans were carried as Brad removed himself. Pulling to the edge of the door, he said, It’s running great. Just give it gas. Hopping out, Brad fixed a drink to cool his throat then stood staring at the rising sun, watching the other racers racing by. Brad noticed car number 30 quickly racing to the rear of the track. Little John was driving car number 30, and Brad knew he was in for a challenge. Brad’s crew wiped smashed bugs from his windshield, and then his tank was full. Spectators occupied the bleachers, while food vendors barked their products. Hot dogs and popcorn with cold drinks were being screamed at the top of the hawkers’ voices as the sun rose up the side of the bleachers, then the racers returned to their pits.

Good morning, race fans. This is Stan the Man, your trusty announcer. The racers are ready to give us fifty laps of pure excitement. This short race is produced by the Cracker Barrel convenience store. The drivers left their pits and then lined beneath the man waving his green flag. The racers are ready to race! All twelve drivers were ready to roar. A pace car rode on the track then drove in front of the racing automobiles.

Stan, the announcing man, removed a half pint of whiskey from his drawer then emptied a cup holding pens and paper clips and filled it with eighty-six-proof Jack Daniel’s. The pace car drove under the flagman posted halfway across the track. The flagman jumped high, waving the green flag frantically. All the drivers stomped their accelerator pedals to their floors, the pace car turned off. And they’re off! Stan told the microphone, so the microphone told the speakers, and the speakers told the crowd. Leading was Brad Billows in car 14. Directly behind him was Little John in auto number 30. Little John had a sadistic smile, his left hand violently vibrating. The roar was deafening.

Shane Sears, in auto 66, vibrated behind Little John, getting too close. Little John swerved, almost crashing into Cockeyed Carl; Carl pulled his steering wheel left, almost smashing Mountain Mann in car 59. Mountain Mann swerved, almost clipping Chief in car 22. Chief bumped Michael, forcing Michael to skid off the wall. Keith, in car 8, downshifted to avoid crashing too.

The racers raced the smooth track as the crowds of spectators necks held their excited heads. In the bleachers, a four-year-old boy named Gary begged his mother for fifty cents to get a Coke. The racers neared the opposite wall. Mrs. Sullivan searched her handbag for change. Getting annoyed, Mrs. Sullivan gave Gary a dollar, saying, Bring me back all of the change! Clasping the wrinkled bill, Gary skipped away. The racers raced in front of the stand again.

Michael, in car 21, was trying to stay in front of Keith, in auto 8. Jack, in car 44, was trying to get the lead from both.

Holding tightly to the wrinkled one-dollar bill, little Gary hurried to the concession stand and stood behind a gentleman waiting already. The cars roared, circling the track. Stan, the announcement man, counted laps to go. People ordered their request and then hurried to watch the end of the race. Gary’s turn arrived; he stood before a billboard and straightened his dollar, requesting a frosty drink. That’ll be a dollar, said the scruffy old man behind the counter.

That’s all I have, and my mom wants some change.

Look, kid, it’s a dollar. You want it or not?

Yeah, I’ll take it.

The man filled a cup with ice and then set the ice under a nozzle spraying bubbling dark drink. Snapping on a plastic cap, he passed it to Gary. Gary turned loose of the wrinkled single, and then holding tightly, he stepped to where his mother sat. When Gary stepped from the counter and turned right, a lady nudged him, causing his drink to drop. Gary started crying loudly, but the crowds didn’t notice, so he stood alone, shedding tears. The woman was the wife of Stan, the announcing man. She stood tall in a mink stole that hugged her full-length, fitted, sequined dress. She shouted, Look at what you did, you little brat! My shoes almost got wet! Gary continued crying. The well-dressed woman was named Francis. She sighed then spun to leave. Her foot slipped through soda, causing her to fall flat on her back. Gary laughed and then hurried away. The racers were racing their last lap before Gary sobbed where his mother sat, and then she asked, Didn’t you save any for me, and where’s my change?

A lady knocked it over, Gary told his mother and then sobbed louder. The racing racers roared loudly under the flagman waving the checkered flag. Come on, Gary, we’ll beat the crowd. Grabbing his fingers, Mrs. Sullivan pulled her son. Everyone else was trying to be the first out too.

Car number 50 was being driven by Hank, and he pulled in front of car 16, with Bobby holding tightly to his shimmering steering wheel. Cockeyed Carl got his top mechanic, Jake, to pull his canvas over car number 70. Keith and his crew covered number 8. Then his head mechanic, Homer, grabbed the opposite corner of the cover of Michael’s number 21 car and pulled. The drivers connected a metal hook to their front bumpers, and then the winch cranked their cars toward their cabs.

Stan, the announcement man, left his tower and then slapped Frank with a rolled race form. You won another, boy! Ain’t ya gonna let anyone ever win?

Not as long as there’s blood in my veins and gas in my tank. Frank walked back to his car’s carrier and made sure the latch was bolted.

He stepped to Stan, who turned over his winnings and said, There’s another race next week. Is ya gonna be there?

Is your name Stan?

Ha, ha, ha.

Frank bade his crew farewell and then turned his key. The international cab coughed before black exhaust lifted from the stacks at its side. Frank’s carrier took his Ford Mustang from the racetrack, and he was bouncing, allowing his international to idle. When Frank hit the highway, he turned left, then fed more fuel and rolled on.

Brad Billows pulled car 14 beside Frank, then raised his middle finger, and shouted, NEXT WEEK, I’LL WIN! Frank raised his hand to his ear, not being able to hear anything but his engine, and then lifted his middle finger, returning the gesture. Their auto carriers rolled side by side to the end of the road. Either left or right? Brad turned left, so Frank turned the opposite way.

*     *     *

Finally at home, Brad pulled open his refrigerator and then took out his dinner. He pulled a chair from the table and sat.

Frank sat at his dining table with the meal from the night before.

Is that you, Frank? his wife called.

Yeah, I won. Go back to sleep.

The bedroom light brightened, then out stepped Winney in her stretched underwear and messed-up hair. Where’s the money? she cried.

It’s in my coat pocket near the table. Go back to bed.

She walked where his jacket draped over the dresser and removed his envelope of winnings then, without a word, returned to their room. Frank had a sandwich and was washing it down when Winney stashed his winnings and returned their bedroom to darkness. Frank set his glass in the sink, filling it with water before lowering the light switch and crawling beside his bride. Frank rolled to his side, trying to kiss her. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE AND GO TO SLEEP! Winney yelled. Frank sighed.

*     *     *

Finally at his home, Brad pulled open his refrigerator and took out his cold dinner and a beer. He pulled a chair then sat. Tilting his head with the beer, Brad chugged two gulps and sighed before lifting a cold chicken leg from his cold plate.

Chief turned his car’s carrier off beside his beat-up shack. Chickens were scratching the ground as he made sure the tarp covering his car was tight. After the tarp was tightened, Chief staggered past the clucking birds to the opening of his hut. Tossing his hide door to the left, he sparked his Zippo. When Chief’s bedroom candles were ablaze, he closed the lighter’s lid, allowing it to slide down the pocket of his jeans. Chief had four plastered walls supporting a flimsy roof that stopped any falling rain and stopped the sun from baking his soul.

Almost slipping in the stream of melted ice in front of his fridge, Chief removed a turkey leg and then chomped his mouth full. Slamming the refrigerator, Chief ripped another bite from the turkey bone. He lifted a burning candle then cupped his hand, carrying the flame toward his bed. When his turkey bone was food-free between his jaws, he tossed it toward the hide covering his door. Then he cupped his palm and blew out the candle’s flame and rested, the smoking wick beside his head, closing both tired eyes.

*     *     *

Mountain Mann was driving his car’s carrier in his drive; the light in his carport was glowing brightly. Driving his carrier to the left, Mountain Mann shoved the gear in park and then opened his door and hopped out. Slamming the door, Mountain Mann carried a map book and the trash he’d accumulated out of the cab. Stepping to the entrance, he raised his knee for balance then fished for his keys. Before he found the correct key, his wife, Betty Mann, opened the door. Here, honey, help me with this, he said, handing her the trash he’d collected. Mrs. Mann had her hair in curlers, and a well-worn robe wrapped her sagging breast.

How’d you do tonight?

I came in sixth, darn it!

Well, you’ll do better next time. Are you hungry? asked Betty Mann, scratching her butt cheek on the way for some food.

You know I’m always ready for your fine cooking. What we got tonight? says Mr. Mann, pulling a chair at the end of the table.

I’ll warm some stew. Go wash up.

Mountain Mann wiped his hands down his trousers and then grabbed a fork and knife, waiting.

When Mrs. Mann returned, she asked, Did you wash?

Yeah, where’s the food?

Betty set a steaming bowl in front, so Mountain Mann leaned forward, sniffing what the bowl contained. Using a wide spoon, Mountain Mann enjoyed the potatoes and carrots before he chewed chunks of tough beef. Sliding the empty bowl and utensils to the center of the table, Mountain Mann belched and then watched Betty clean the table before washing the bowl he’d just used. Drying her hands, she walked behind her husband to bed.

*     *     *

Little John finished eating with his head mechanic, Pop, and they were talking about any upcoming races and then prepared a hot pot of coffee. Little John’s promiscuous wife, Shea, stumbled in the kitchen; her large breasts shaded her shiny shoes. She stumbled toward the table, giggling about not being able to stand. Little John stood six feet two inches high and said, Pop, will you excuse me for a minute? I’ve got to help Shea to bed.

Sure, John.

I’ll help her to bed, and she’ll be fine, said Little John, holding tightly and lifting his drunken bride.

Pop watched in disgust. Little John pulled a blanket to his wife’s open mouth, then returned to the dining room and prepared another pot of coffee. They talked for hours about any upcoming races. The coffeepot was drip dry when Pop said, Well, Little John, we’ll get together tomorrow. Good night, and don’t let your lady mess with your head.

It’s already tomorrow, and she’s had such a hard life. We’ll both be fine. Little John turned the doorknob to allow Pop out.

When Pop slammed his personal car’s door, Little John locked his kitchen door and pulled the light switch down. Pop’s headlights shone against the wall then vanished, so Little John returned his living room to darkness. Carefully walking to his king-size bed, he eased his drunken bride out of the way then dropped his Levi’s and lay.

*     *     *

The racer named Jack turned his beat-up carrier beside the log cabin his family built decades ago and then switched off its engine. Carefully gathering his belongings, Jack jumped out of the cab. Landing loudly, he lifted his things and then strolled toward his shabby little home. His harmless hound lay near the door without a care in the world. The hound’s name was Gomer. Its eyes were closed, and its head lay atop its crossed paws. Jack stepped over the mutt and then turned his doorknob as his wife walked from their room, yawning. Jack placed his belongings on the table and then turned, planting his lips on his tired ole lady’s lips. She