Belford Stories 4: Belford Stories, #4

By Armand Rosamilia

October 2002...

Another weekend in the small fishing village in New Jersey. Five years after the events of the last book, can the Belford residents move on with their lives after what's happened in their past?

A contemporary fiction release!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rymfire Books
• Release date: Apr 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201496838

Book preview

Belford Stories 4

Armand Rosamilia

Chapter One

Friday October 11th, 2002

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Willie Davidson had decided he was never getting out of Belford. He’d learned to accept it lately. Even embraced it. And why not? He was starting to plant actual roots in town.

Starting with the dilapidated building he was standing in front of with the realtor.

Like I said, Mister Davidson, the owner is very interested in selling it.

It was zoned for commercial use. Right on Main Street, although on the wetside so the foot traffic would be nonexistent. It was close enough to the firehouse and a few businesses like a doctor’s office and the realtor’s office so there might be a few steady customers.

This was Willie’s dream. To own his own place. A small restaurant with a few tables serving breakfast and lunch. His clientele would be the working class of Belford, which was about ninety percent of the population.

All it would take was a sizable chunk of his savings, leaving him broke again. Then he’d need to secure a loan so he could fix it. Bring it up to code so he’d be able to open and sell food.

Willie had busted his ass the last three years at the Marina Diner, working his way to manager. With such turnover and the place being sold to the Konstantopoulos family, who owned half a dozen other diners, everything had subtly changed for Willie.

He’d been happy working at the diner. Loved running the kitchen, especially after Tank had reluctantly retired. With new owners it meant more of a Greek menu, but Willie had enjoyed learning how to make a proper Greek salad as well as spanakopita and kotopoulo. They’d shared their family recipes and Willie had taken to it, teaching the other kitchen help how to not only cook but plate it.

His promotion to manager meant he only got to cook when they were short-staffed. He still snuck into the kitchen during slow shifts and did some of the prep work. He enjoyed cooking and didn’t enjoy constantly smiling at customers and paperwork.

Running his own restaurant was going to be exciting. Right now it was also scary.

I can have the papers drawn up and we can sign today if you have the money, the realtor said with a smile.

Willie walked up to the front door like he’d done a hundred times. He’d been inside once a week for the last two months, walking the dirty floors, sweeping cobwebs out of his path, envisioning where everything would go. The building had been a restaurant two decades ago. The stoves and kitchen appliances were industrial grade but ancient. They’d all need to be replaced.

I’d hate for this great location to be sold out from under you, Mister Davidson. There are other interested buyers looking to purchase the site, too.

Willie smiled. She’d said that every time he’d visited. He knew no one had even thought of this building for years. The weeds were choking the grass. The back fence had been knocked down during a Nor'easter years ago, too. You couldn’t even get into the small patch of land behind the building because the woods behind it had encroached onto it.

In another few years the building itself would be hidden behind trees and bushes.

After the first look Willie hadn’t called the realtor back, but every time she looked out her office window and saw him wandering around she was suddenly next to him with the paperwork and a smile.

He stopped and looked at the building when he was headed to work. It helped him to focus during the day and visualize his goals. Everything he learned at the diner he could use someday with his own kitchen. Hiring employees. Paperwork, which he hated. Advertising. Taxes and cost of food.

Willie had spent countless nights writing up his first menu. Paring down the hundreds of choices to a manageable few. He could always do specials for certain days and slowly add more dishes and sides as he got the right kitchen and wait staff.

He’d need to hire another cook. He’d casually mentioned it to Stearny, who’d been working at the diner a few hours after school and on the weekends. He would be graduating next year and wanted to go to culinary school with the hope of someday owning his own place.

Willie was going to see if he wanted to stick around and help out. The idea would be to make the business profitable and someday open a second or third location nearby.

He’d need reliable people to work with. Stearny could be one of them. He was hungry. Young. Enthusiastic. Best of all he was all about cooking.

Willie had his first menu picked out. His logo hand-drawn and hanging on his fridge at home for inspiration.

Cricker’s Restaurant would become a staple for years to come.

He’d purchase his seafood fresh from the boats coming into Belford docks. Have quite a few local delicacies. Pork roll egg and cheese breakfast sandwich.

The realtor leaned in close to Willie, even though they were the only people in sight, standing in the cold staring at a building that could fall over. If I asked the owner maybe he’ll help with some of the repair work, too. She waved her hand. Nothing major, you understand. A couple of grand knocked off the top to help you out.

She’d done this every other visit as well. Part of the game, Willie supposed.

I’ll need to go home and discuss it with my girlfriend, Willie said. He already knew what her response would be: go for it. Take charge of your dreams. This is what he’d been saving every last penny for.

She understood. She’d been saving her own money ever since he’d admitted to her he wanted to run his own small restaurant. A cafe with breakfast and lunch. Good coffee. A stage in the corner for people to play guitar or read poetry. A meeting place for townsfolk. Somewhere besides the bar to hang out.

I’ll be in touch, Willie said.

The realtor smiled but he knew she was once again disappointed. Tell Clarissa I said hi.

Chapter Two

A drag from last night’s cigarette and the last generous gulp of what was left in the bourbon bottle started George Smith’s day. He sat up, shook the cobwebs from his aching head and nearly crawled to the bathroom.

Mornings like this he ignored the sorry bastard in the mirror. He’d seen him a million times before: bloodshot eyes, hair like a rat’s nest, stubbled face, his goatee straggly. He smelled like puke and wondered if it was his or someone he’d hung out with last night.

Last night he’d been... George splashed water on his face. He didn’t remember yesterday.

After a bite to eat and coffee he’d start to piece it together.

He wandered into the living room and fell onto the couch. Willie had cleaned up as usual. He’d taken out the garbage and done the dishes, even though it was definitely George’s turn.

Someday I’m going to be rich and famous and take care of Willie, he thought. Buy the fucker a big restaurant in New York City where the celebrities go to eat and be seen.

Until then he’d try to be a better roommate and not get on Willie’s bad side. He’d already missed his rent payment this month and knew it would be hard to keep his head above water throughout the winter.

With the construction jobs drying up thanks to the weather, the only income George had was the gigs. Splitting a few hundred bucks between five band members wasn’t enough to live on right now.

The other four members had banded together and were renting a house near the docks. It was a shithole without running water. The heater was going to break sooner than later.

It was what bass player Stevie called living the rock and roll lifestyle.

George argued the real way to live it was have a hot stripper paying the bills and letting you crash in her apartment and between her legs.

Lucky for the band the houses on either side were condemned so they could practice as loud as they wanted, although lately most of the original stuff tended to be mellower and George was playing more acoustic guitar.

He didn’t know if he liked the new style or the cover songs they were playing, but the crowds seemed to like it. Most shows they opened for a touring national act or a big local band, getting a thirty minute slot and told by the promoter how many covers they were allowed to perform. Of course, they couldn’t play any songs from the headlining band or from a band that sounded like them.

They had a show tonight in Toms River. Or was it Philly? George couldn’t remember if it was an actual club or a lame house party. Stevie had been in charge of most of the bookings since it was his band, but the paying gigs were few and far between.

Two weeks ago they’d gone all the way down to Seaside Heights and were paid in beer for a house party. Beer as in each member got a free beer. By the time they drank they were warm, too. George had been pissed the ride home and refused to speak to Stevie.

He thought it was getting to the point he’d need to do his own thing, although he’d never had more success than with these guys.

What success? George closed his eyes and got comfy on the couch. He’d been up for a few minutes. It was time to take a quick nap before he’d practice. Maybe write a few riffs on his own today. He needed to start putting together his own music. Something definitely heavier. Grunge and alternative wasn’t going to be the music of the future. He could already see the kids were getting bored with it. Heavy metal and hard rock were going to come back and he wanted to ride the wave to the next bunch of bands being signed.

Someday I’ll go out to L.A. or play the club circuit in New York City, George thought.

The phone in the kitchen was ringing. Leave it to Willie to hang it up in the cradle so it wasn’t within reach on the coffee table.

On the third ring George stumbled over. He’d need coffee and food anyway. After he could take his nap.

Where are you? We’re starting practice, Stevie said on the phone.

George groaned. No one told me.

Yeah. I did, dude. Last weekend I reminded you.

George was pissed. He started making coffee, hoping Willie had bought some last trip to the supermarket. I saw you twice this week. You couldn’t remind me? Aren’t you and Mick supposed to be at work?

They called us off because of the snowstorm.

What snowstorm?

Stevie laughed. Man, watch the news. Read the paper. Get involved in your community and your world.

Only you can prevent forest fires, George said sarcastically.

We’ll give you fifteen minutes and then we’ll get my cousin to fill in if you’re no longer interested in the band, Stevie said. We need to leave by five for the show.

I thought you said it was going to snow tonight.

Which is why we need to leave early... so we can get to Philly before the roads are too bad, Stevie said it like George was an idiot.

Is this an actual show in a club or a house thing?

There was a pause.

George groaned again. We’re going to risk getting killed for a stupid house party that’ll probably be cancelled because of the weather. This is bullshit.

You got a better gig lined up I don’t know about, dude?

No, George said through gritted teeth. He wished he did. Nearly five years of playing with this band and nothing real was happening. They were more interested in getting laid and drinking.

George sighed. He’d wasted way too much time as well with drinking. He’d been using more and more coke lately. Trying to push down the demons and the gnawing feeling he was never going to amount to anything.

He’d hooked up with a few other bands that’d been in town. Kept in touch. Snorted some coke on a tour bus here and there and made connections. Took advantage of the strong groupie population at these shows.

George was sick of being another local guitarist. He wanted something bigger. Something with meaning.

Are you coming to practice or not? Stevie asked.

Yeah. Gimme ten minutes to get dressed.

Stevie laughed in triumph. I’ll give you eight minutes, jerkoff. And bring a bottle of anything so we can loosen up. I have a new song I want to work on later, too.

George hung up the phone and slumped against the kitchen wall. This was going to be a very long day and night. He’d need to start drinking early.

Chapter Three

It was getting cold. Amanda’s mom had said it would snow tonight, which was the worst possible thing because by Monday morning the roads would be cleared. It would be time for school and they wouldn’t miss a day. The best time to snow was late Sunday night so they’d be off Monday and maybe Tuesday.

A weekend playing in the snow would be cool, although she’d need to build a snowman in her backyard. She was getting too old to be seen acting like a child.

Molly greeted Amanda at the bus stop with a smile. She’d be nice until the rest of the West End kids showed up, and then she’d act like a snob.

Amanda wondered why she put up with her shit. Because you have no friends, she thought.

My mom says it’s gonna snow tonight, Molly said.

Your mom is a whore. Amanda smiled. Cool.

As soon as the other kids started showing up Molly turned her back to Amanda.

Amanda was still fantasizing about slamming Molly to the ground and stomping her into the pavement with her boots when the bus came.

She sat by herself on the way to school,