Belford Stories 3: Belford Stories, #3

By Armand Rosamilia

October 1997...

Another Friday night in the small fishing village along the New Jersey coast. A return to see how everyone has fared in the last five years and who's made the right and wrong decisions in their life.

Check back in with Willie, April, Tommy, George, Frankie, Gary, Billy, Jimmy, and Garrett ten years after the events of the original Belford Stories!

Contemporary fiction

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rymfire Books
• Release date: Apr 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9798201597665

Book preview

Armand Thanks

My parents for raising me not on the gritty streets of Newark (where I was born) but in the little fishing village to the south, Belford.

No matter where I live Belford will always remain home to me.

Shelly for always being there and helping me to chase my dreams, even when they only seem like dreams

Amanda Lehman, who I’ve known literally all her life. Thanks for so many great potential cover pictures and especially the one gracing this book!

Belford Stories

Armand Rosamilia

Chapter One

Friday October 10th, 1997

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Willie Davidson felt like he was even more of a cricker now that he’d finally given in and bought a small two-bedroom on the Wet Side of Belford.

It wasn’t much and he barely scraped by between working full-time as a cook at the Marina Diner and picking up a run on a boat on his two off days, but it was his.

With the extra money he’d been able to save he was hoping to do some work on it. Maybe add a deck out back so he could sit out with a cup of coffee or a beer and see the sunrise over the docks.

You and George doing anything special tonight? Clarissa was smiling at Willie across the prep table. I think there’s a party in Leonardo.

Willie smiled. I’m working until ten. I have no idea what my roomie is doing.

George had moved into the house with Willie six months ago to gain some independence from his parents and to help Willie pay the bills.

Tell him I said hi. Clarissa picked up her table’s order and headed for the kitchen door.

Tell him yourself, Willie thought. George would be stopping by at some point to drop off his portion of the electric bill. Clarissa and a couple of the other waitresses would flirt with an oblivious George, who had no idea he’d suddenly become hot to these women.

As many times as Willie had explained his long hair and goatee, not to mention George had bulked up in the past couple of years with weights, and the fact he carried himself like a rock star, all created a new persona. One that George had no idea he’d put together or that it was attracting many women.

It was part of the charm of Willie’s friend.

Willie glanced at the clock on the wall for the tenth time in the last hour. He wondered if the hands were going backwards or the clock had stopped. It wasn’t even noon yet. He still had a long day ahead of him.

He wondered if George had a gig tonight. Despite swearing off playing guitar for nearly three years, when the final breakup with April had occurred he’d gone through the typical crap a guy will go through: depression, drinking, doing stupid shit.

Then his mother had bought him a new guitar since he’d sold his equipment.

He’d gone back to playing and right before moving in with Willie had formed a band with some local guys from Union Beach.

Willie wasn’t a big fan of the music they were playing. They were doing covers of the current hits: Creed, Matchbox 20, Smash Mouth and Everclear. There was talk of the band adding a female singer so they could add in Veruca Salt and Garbage.

He still supported his friend, going to the bar they were jamming in whenever he wasn’t working. It was something to do and a way to see a few people he’d gone to school with back in the day.

We got six more orders coming in right now and I think a bus pulled into the parking lot, Ralph, the prep cook, yelled for everyone in the kitchen to hear.

There wouldn’t be any breaks today. It would be an average busy Friday and it was only going to get busier as the day progressed.

Willie noticed Tank, his boss, shaking his head and sighing.

Tank didn’t look so good today. He was a hustler and usually had some sweat on his face from the running around and the stoves, but today he looked pale.

You okay? Willie asked.

Tank nodded. I need a re-order on the scrambled eggs. The guy said they were too runny.

You got it. Willie had never gone a day without at least one customer complaining about the eggs. They were too runny. Too cooked. Too bland. Too yellow. Whatever. People just liked sending food back to feel important.

Tank leaned against the counter and wiped his forehead with a rag he always kept in his pocket. It’s a little hot in here today.

It’s as hot as Hell as usual, Willie said and smiled.

His smile faded when he saw Tank’s eyes roll and his legs shake.

Willie dropped the skillet he was using to make eggs and grabbed Tank a second before he hit the floor.

Someone help. Call an ambulance, Willie yelled.

Tank was unconscious and he felt hot to the touch.

Clarissa and two other waitresses came running.

Call an ambulance, Willie repeated. Don’t just stand there staring like assholes. Give me some fucking room.

The ambulance is on the way, someone yelled.

Willie asked for a couple of aprons and rolled them, putting Tank on the floor and propping his head up. He didn’t know what was wrong and didn’t want to chance moving him.

Your eggs are burning, Clarissa said.

Then move them. You can’t be this stupid, Willie said, knowing he was going to regret talking to her like that. I’m sorry. It’s just... trying to help Tank. Can you help me?

Clarissa gave Willie the finger and stormed out of the kitchen.

Ralph handled the burning food and the EMT’s arrived.

Tank, you’re going to be fine, Willie said, even though he doubted he could hear.

As they wheeled Tank out and the customers oohed and aahed, Willie took a deep breath.

Another waitress stuck her head through the server window and shook a ticket. Where are my eggs and bacon for six?

Ralph slapped Willie on the back. You’re in charge. Senior guy. Tell us what to do.

Willie had a moment of panic before he shrugged. Let’s cook some food.

Chapter Two

The storm drain was packed with debris.

George Smith would need help on this one but decided to try on his own first. He knew most of the other guys, all of them older, didn’t like him.

He had no idea why, either. He’d been working for Middletown Public Works for nearly a year, yet he’d made friends with no one else. Lord knows George had tried, too.

George considered himself a good worker. He was never late. He stayed late if he had to. He had already told his boss he’d be available for overtime when the snow started to hit.

He’d been met with a grunt and everyone staring at him. 

Maybe he could use a rake and pull some of the heavier branches and sludge out.

George knew he could also do nothing and sit in his truck and listen to the radio, which was what his supposed partner was doing right now.

He turned to see the guy was actually taking a nap while he was out here working.

That asshole was making twice the money George was making, too.

George got down on his hands and knees and peered into the depths of the drain, trying to ignore the hot smell of death emanating from between the grates.

Something had died and been buried by a bunch of shit.

George turned his head to see if the asshole was still sleeping. He was.

Why am I doing this? Why am I about to shove my hands into something wet and dead for a shitty paycheck? George knew why. Because playing guitar isn’t paying a single bill. I can’t buy a soda from what I’ve made so far. Every dime I make is spent on strings and getting to gigs. What’s the point?

Music was the point. Playing in front of a crowd, even three or four people, was worth it. The only thing he had to look forward to in life was an upcoming gig. Practicing his guitar and trying to find like-minded musicians to form a new band.

His goal had been to work enough overtime to upgrade some of his equipment, especially the two foot pedals that had burned out in July.

So far they’d passed on him for overtime and he was getting pissed.

He was worth more than any of these guys. Maybe they knew it, too. Why else would he be shunned and pushed aside?

Stuck with this sleeping asshole every day, too.

George managed to pull one of the bigger branches out and quite a bit of what he called muck came with it. The sucking noise as the mud and shit fell back into the hole was sickening and he dry-heaved twice before getting his shit together.

This was only going to get worse. He knew the pair of gloves he was wearing would be ruined and he’d have to wash them. Last time he’d tried to trade them in for a new pair his boss told him it was the only pair he’d get for the season.

George had been having a recurring nightmare about one of his fingers getting crushed in either a Public Works machine or ruined in a car accident as he was a passenger in one of the trucks.

In an ideal world his music career took off and he’d never have to do this shitty manual labor again. He’d return to Belford and New Jersey a fucking hero.

Fuck that. I’ll know I made it when there was no reason to ever return to this shithole, George thought.

He decided to make the most of his day as he went to the next branch and tried to yank it out of the quicksand in the drain.

Like anything else in life, there was a song in this mess.

More and more in the last few months he’d been going to his acoustic guitar instead of plugging in and trying to crack windows with the volume.

Bruce Springsteen had written song after song about the working man, even though George had heard the guy never actually worked a day in his life that didn’t include playing music.

He thought of a title. Public Works Blues.

George laughed at how horrible a title it was but he knew he was onto something.

The guy he was working with was awake now and rolled down the window. How’s it going?

It’s hard. I need help, George said.

The guy grinned, his broken tooth and missing tooth all George could see when he looked at him. We’re getting paid by the hour. Take your time. I need to get some smokes. Be right back.

George stepped back as the truck started. He reached up and grabbed a rake off the back as the guy drove away. He’d return in an hour or two while George busted his ass doing all the work.

One Tooth/Broken Tooth would feature in his next song, about an asshole who treats people like shit and keeps them down. In the end he’d get what’s coming to him.

Now George wished he was home and working some chord changes in his hands. He knew musicians who could come up with rhythms and harmonies in their head. George needed a guitar in order to work through writing, even if he wasn’t actually playing the instrument.

It was all mental, he knew.

George used the rake to hook some of the muck and dumped it onto the grass in front of him. The drain was packed and immediately shifted to cover what he’d just cleared. If he didn’t know any better he’d think the drain was pushing more sludge up from the bottom anytime he took some out.

The rake was helping as he kept working, although at times it felt like a monster was underneath the surface trying to pull the rake and George into the muck.

Maybe another song, he thought. A normal working guy attacked because his partner is an asshole and left him to get cigarettes. A creature living under the city streets.

He knew the idea was lame.

It was better to think up song ideas and concepts than to concentrate on the mess in front of him. His pants were caked with gunk and his feet were freezing. While it wasn’t that cold outside, having his feet wet with the wind blowing sucked.

His boots had been ruined a couple of weeks ago when they’d sent him down a culvert to clean it and he’d sunk into a foot of mud, losing a boot. When he’d finally fished it out it had somehow ripped.

The assholes on that crew had laughed and no one came down to help him.

He swore he’d get the last laugh. These jerkoffs would all brag someday they’d worked with George. Make pretend they’d all been friends.

George spent the next ninety minutes daydreaming about a sold-out crowd at Madison Square Garden, there to see him and his band.

When Missing Tooth/Broken Tooth returned it was time for lunch.

George made sure to not say a word to the asshole.

Chapter Three

April Schwartz thought Miss Lucille’s hair looked so much better than it had when she’d first arrived at Elaine’s Beauty Stop, but the woman could be a