The Stone Problem

By Cutter Lakewood

A carnival karaoke singer, a high-class grifter, an aging superstar, a voodoo priestess, and the Vegas mob. What could go wrong? Find out in this adventurous thrill ride, where a down-and-out carnival karaoke singer realizes his dream of becoming a star, but not in the way he imagines.

Drowning his sorrow with sour mash and sinsemilla, Chip Barnett could be found drinking and getting high on most nights in his beat-up Winnebago motor home that was cramped into a dusty fairground parking lot next to a hundred other beat-up campers. In a constant state of intoxication, he drank and did whatever drugs he could get his hands on, uppers or downers, depending on the time of day. It was the only way he could manage to cope with his miserable existence as a carnival karaoke singer.

Raul was feeling the heat from the whole mess. His people were leaning on him to fix things, and he knew what that meant. He could stay in good graces with the families, providing nothing blew back on them. Aside from the slowdown in business, no one was out any real money yet. But with Betty gone, Hal was a liability. She was a big moneymaker for a major family, and they were going to want to get paid or want retribution. Since it was Hal that brought Betty into this whole mess, hed have to take the fall. Pay your ticket or get your ticket paid out was the way of things.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546220435

Cutter Lakewood

Bob, a world class skier, drummer, chef and writer, was born on the shores of lake Mendota, in the village of Maple Bluff in Madison Wisconsin. Bob was born into a historically significant political family. His father an attorney, was appointed to the US Attorneys office by Bobby Kennedy, and was elected to the office of Attorney General of WI. Bob worked summers for the DNR in high school as part of the US Conservation Corps. After dropping out of college, he moved to Maui at the age of 22, where he lived for 6 years, and apprenticed at Gerards in Lahaina, where worked as the sous chef for two years. Bob also performed as the drummer in the Whisky Jones Band; a popular show band, performing in the clubs and hotels on the island. In 1984, he married his high school sweetheart, in a ceremony on Kaanapali beach. His son was born in 87 and the family moved back to the Midwest. In Madison, he started two restaurants and in his spare time, studied under Clyde Stubblefield, the Funky Drummer from the James Brown band. Bob then went on to work for att for 15 years, moved to Milwaukee, and currently works as a teacher in the Milwaukee Public School system while he writes in his spare time.

Book preview

1

Drowning his sorrows with sour mash and sinsemilla, on any given night, Chip Barnett could be found drinking and getting high in his beat-up Winnebago motor home, cramped into a dusty fairground parking lot, next to a hundred other beat up campers. In a constant state of intoxication, he consumed whatever drugs he could get his hands on; speed, valium, weed and coke when he could afford it. It was the only way he could manage to cope with his miserable existence without blowing his fucking brains out.

It was near the end of the fair season and he was passed out on the cracked broken plastic couch in his camper again. He awoke with the hot summer sun, streaming through the broken, faded shades, of his rusted-out Winnebago motor home. He opened his blood shot eyes and slowly sitting up, rubbed his finger across the smeared, dirty glass, of the small mirror laid haphazardly across the beer stained fake wood table, attached to the floor of his 20-year-old, rusted out motor home.

He carefully examined the paper wrapper containing last night’s score, and as he licked the paper clean, he said, shit, that fucking bitch did all the coke again.

Still dressed in his sweat stained sequined show suit, he ran to the bathroom, and dry heaved into the dirty plastic toilet. He stumbled to the camper’s tiny fridge, cracked open a beer and after chugging down half, fell back into the broken, plastic Naugahyde sofa attached to the floor. With shaking hands, he lit up the butt of a joint from an over flowing ash tray. Toking on the remains, he sucked sparks into his mouth, burning his tongue and causing a violent cough. The sparks embedded in his show suit and started a small fire. He stumbled to his feet and swatted at his chest and threw his suit jacket out the door where it burst into flames from all the alcohol absorbed over the last two years.

Struggling to remember just in what shitty Podunk county fair he was in this week, he staggered to his feet, grabbed a pair of cheap Elvis sun glasses, and peered out the broken shade through the cracked, dusty window.

With his voice raw from singing and smoking, he said, All these fucking parks look the same. God dam carnival! Where the fuck are we? Cedar Rapids or Des Moines? Who the fuck cares? Same shit, different day.

Chip fell onto the couch, burped loudly and grabbed a half empty bag of Doritos from the coffee table, and munching down the stale contents from the rest of the bag, he washed it down with the last of his 1st morning beer.

Reaching across the dirty, beer stained surface of the faded faux wood coffee table he opened a half stuck, creaky drawer and grabbed his stepdad’s 40-year-old 357 magnum. With one bullet in the chamber he spun the cylinder, and pressing the barrel against his head, pulled the trigger. Not today momma, he said as he got up and headed for the shower, heaven will have to wait.

He played this game almost every morning as he prayed for his miserable existence as a carnival karaoke singer to end. What he didn’t know, was that the shells from his step dad’s gun were so old they could never fire.

Following his shower, Chip threw on an old t-shirt, a pair of faded blue jeans and slipped on a pair of flip flops. On his way out, the door he grabbed a fresh beer from the fridge, a pack of smokes and pair of sunglasses from the stained kitchen counter and headed out into the already hot humid air of another Midwestern summer morning.

It was sometime after 11 am and Chip could hear the repulsive cacophony of grinding gears and diesel engines churning to life; the fair was just about to open, and he was already getting sick to his stomach at the thought of facing another day in his own personal hell.

As he looked out over the dusty parking lot, he still couldn’t remember the name of back country County fair he was in. A light breeze kicked up a little dust as he made his way towards the fair’s business office; a rust stained camper tucked under the shade of the only tree in 5 miles. He rapped on the broken aluminum door as a, be-back-later sign swung in the hot summer breeze. He popped his head in the door and Lisa, a 40 something, slightly overweight, bleach blond from Arkansas perked up at seeing her favorite member from the dismal crew working this 2nd rate carnival.

Over the top of her bifocals in a southern drawl as soft as smoke and thick as molasses, Lisa said, Hey Chipster, what can I do for ya sweetie? Trying to avoid her gaze Chip said, Ah yeah, hey there L-Lisa, I’m jus ch-checking for the m-mail.

With a comical smirk Lisa said, Nothing yet honey, check back around one.

With a certain level of exasperation Chip said, Ok, th-thanks catch ya l-later.

Desperately trying to add a little spice to his one-man karaoke show, he was waiting for delivery of a new collection of top 40 hits and Nigel Stone dance songs. Chip had been doing the same show for so long, some days he felt like he was in a living nightmare of never ending reruns of his miserable life as a carnival karaoke singer.

The fair boss for the season was an army vet suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. He always looked like he’d just gotten out of bed after a night of heavy drinking. Chip wondered if he ever really slept. Jack Boyd was a decent enough guy; a 45-year-old Vietnam army vet and divorced father of three. Jack had been an assistant professor once, but after two tours in Nam, he returned from the war, to a nation at war. Addicted to morphine from the loss of his lower right leg, he spent 10 years in and out of vet hospitals and drug treatment centers, until he found the Lord and kicked his longtime heroin habit. He still suffered from alcoholism, depression and insomnia and was always mumbling something under his breath. You never knew if he was talking to you or to himself.

Chip, he yelled across the tarmac, where was you last night? I’m not paying you to hide in your fucking camper getting high all night. God dam it Chip, if I don’t get a full show from you tonight, I’m docking your pay. We had a group of Japanese tourists in town yesterday, I told them you was sick and would be back tonight, well, what about it?

Chip knew Jack never left his trailer after 7 pm, and was just on one of his constant rants.

I swear Chip, I’ll do it, I’ll dock your pay, I wanna see you singing your heart out tonight. You never know who will be passing through, maybe you’ll get that big break.

Everyone at the fair knew about Chip’s burning desire for the big stage. Jack was one of his biggest fans, and loved to drink Old Fashions and watch Chip’s afternoon show. Chip actually paid Jack what are called park fees, to be in the carnival, but Jack was either so drunk or hung-over, he could never remember who was under contract to the fair and who wasn’t.

Chip just humored the old man and said, Ok Jack, sorry about last night, my throat was bothering me again, I’m feeling better today, d-don’t d-dock my check p-please, Jack, I’ll make it up to ya t-tonight, I promise.

All right Chip, it’s ok, just don’t try pulling any crap on me, I got eyes in my head, er, I mean, behind my head, ah …I mean in the back of my…well you know what the fuck I mean.

Yeah, ok, I’ll catch you later Jack, Chip said as he turned the corner to get out of Jacks way.

Most fairs opened at noon, and Chip was scheduled to do a 45-min show, with a 15-minute break, till 11 pm. He usually started his first show around 3 pm, and depending on the crowd, did 1/2 hour shows with a ½ hour break till closing time. If it was slow, Chip’s partner Dave would just play cassette tapes through the sound system and Chip would go back to his trailer and get high. Some days he made more on the bar if he didn’t perform, which just added to his sense of failure and desperation; a carnival karaoke singer nobody wanted to hear.

As he walked through the crowded parking lot, the loud bellow of diesel engines drowned out the scenic beauty of the peaceful country side. Thick black smoke rose in plumes, wafting through the narrow channels of row after row of dirty broken down trailers. Chip gazed up into the bright sunshine and caught a momentary whiff of sweet country air, for a moment he was transformed back to the farm. He could almost smell fresh biscuits cooking in the kitchen as in his mind’s eye he was feeding chickens and milking cows.

Back then he never appreciated the quite solitude of the family farm. Memories of his mother flooded his mind and brought tears to his eyes as he gazed up and watched a pair of hawks riding the wind. He shook the clouded vision from his mind and still painfully hung over from the night before, stumbled over to the Burrito Barn for his morning breakfast. His close friend and fuck buddy Jenny, was standing at the counter talking to Jose, a 15-year-old kid working the carnival and on the road with his dad for the first time. Jenny was there having her usual, a naked burrito; scrambled eggs with a side of rice and beans topped with cheese.

Jenny was a tall beautiful blond, with dancers’ legs, pearly white teeth and sparkling blue eyes. Chip was head over heels in love with her, and she treated him like all the other guys trying to get in her pants. With a level of distain reserved for an unwanted pet. Chip wasn’t exactly sure what she did, he figured she was some kind of manager for the carnival, she just seemed to always be around, sort of keeping an eye on things.

Hey Chip, I missed your show last night, Jenny said between mouthfuls of rice and beans.

Yeah, hey s-sorry bout that, my voice and all, it’s the heat, you know it was 110 in the shade yesterday.

The truth was that it was so slow at the lounge, Chip had stayed in his trailer drinking all night.

Looking quixotically at Chip she said, Yeah, it’s been a real scorcher this year, we’re supposed to get some rain tomorrow, maybe that’ll cool things down for the weekend. Hey, did you hear about Tim, he passed out under the Tilt-a-Whirl trailer again last night, almost got run over this morning.

Chip and Jose laughed as Jenny said, hey, it’s not funny, he broke a couple of ribs, he’s still in the hospital, he might have internal bleeding, she said frowning as she paid for her food.

Still laughing Chip said, Yeah r-remember last t-time, they almost drove over his head, I s-swear, that guy must have a d-death wish.

No, Jose said, he’s just a stinking drunk, better to smoke da ganja bro.

Still laughing, Chip said under his breath, yeah Jose, your right bro. Hey dude you got any?

Smacking Chip upside the head Jenny said, Chip, cut it out, he’s just a kid,

Yeah hey s-sorry, a y-yo Jose, I’ll have the usual, Chip said, trying to avoid Jenny’s gaze, her piercing blue eyes sparked in the mid-summer sun. Jenny, the little tease, always dressed a little too provocatively for his taste. She knew just how much she could show without looking like a whore. A tight yellow tube top, delicately held her perfect 34 D breasts, underneath an old, over large button-down men’s pink dress shirt. With buttons open and tied at the bottom with a square knot, her skin tight blue jean cut off shorts pressed firmly against her full