"L.A. JOURNAL": some stories about some guys doing the best they can in the Nowhere City

by C. Bradford Eastland

Overview

There has always been a lot of confusion and misconception regarding the short-story. What exactly is it? What exactly defines it? And if a true literary artiste is capable of churning out a whole novel, why waste time on a bunch of stories in the first place?

C. Bradford Eastland, author of the groundbreaking novel Where Gods Gamble, answers all these questions and more in his masterwork collection of short fiction, “L.A. Journal”.

Throughout the twenty-two stories of this nostalgic, regionally driven volume, Eastland the artist’s lifelong mission becomes clear; to leave behind a handful of powerful, original, timeless vignettes of the times and places in which he lived. Along the way, he takes a stab at making sense of many of the great issues—love, lust, war, religion, friendship, betrayal, craziness, joblessness, homelessness, homophobia, racism, patriotism, terrorism, and the Giants versus the Dodgers—we humans brush up against every day of our lives.

So take a look at Los Angeles through the eyes of a bum, a bartender, a disillusioned writer, an old Negro Leagues ballplayer, and a little boy angry at God—among others. You might wind up seeing one of the greatest and most mocked cities on Earth in a wholly different light.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781475961324
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	01/03/2013
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	424
File size:	2 MB

Read an Excerpt

L.A. Journal

some stories about some guys doing the best they can in the Nowhere City

---

By C. Bradford Eastland

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 C. Bradford Eastland
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-6121-8

---

Contents

Boy Into Man THE BLACK BEE....................3
A HAND OF POKER....................9
OH-FOR-FOUR....................21
ROLAND BARNES....................39
LAND OF THE FREE....................75
KING CHARLES....................111
STRAITS OF MESSINA....................127
SEASICK....................163
THE SHORT STRANGE STORY OF HAL HAPPIWELL....................185
THE IMP OF BERKELEY....................221
THE GOOD OLD DAYS....................229
THEATER-IN-THE-ROUND....................243
WELCOME TO MISS IDA PARROT'S BED & BREAKFAST....................257
A YANK IN WINSDOR....................293
A COMMUNITY OF HOLINESS....................303
Some Misfits Misplacing Some Golden Dreams REFLECTIONS OF A CAR WINDOW....................319
CLOSE FINISH....................341
THE BEGGAR DRIVES A METAL HORSE....................349
THE GRUMP AND THE GROUND SQUIRREL....................359
THE SOAP OPERA THEORY OF EXISTENCE....................375
TWO THOUSAND FIVE....................391
homeless man....................405

Chapter One

THE BLACK BEE

A small boy (though admittedly "corn-fed big for his age", per the quaint local expression) sat bellybutton deep in a pile of loud leaves and watched the wind blow between his toes.

Some of the just-flattened leaves were green, but most were red or yellow by this time, and it wouldn't be long before all the leaves had turned a brittle brown; only to be buried by the December snows. The best time of the year around these parts. Iowa. A place not exactly famous for good times or fun things to do. It was the time of year that has always afforded the people of this flat uncompromising state a brief, happy respite, a temperate truce to mediate between the sweltering humidity of summer and the prohibitive cold of winter. Yes, that was the best part of being an Iowa child, all right.... along with the fireflies.... which everyone called "lightning bugs". The leaves. It was the leaves. And the small boy was particularly fond of these rejected, discolored leaves. They were his friends. Soon he was happily reshaping them into a gigantic pile. He clutched the leaves gently in his soft chubby hands, crinkling an occasional brown one until it sounded like aluminum foil, and then threw them on the pile until the pile had grown above his head. Finally he was ready for his next leap. They hadn't told him yet, but it would be the last time he would ever see the leaves fall....

"Chaarlieee! If I catch you without your shoes on, it'll be all day and half the night with you!"

It was obvious that the woman's voice had issued forth from somewhere within the two-story white house, the square white house which she ruled, but it might just as well have rained down from the strange invisible kingdom in the sky they had recently begun to tell him about; such was the cold power and absolute authority it carried. The small boy's first impulse was one of fear, fear of that power (fear of Consequence herself?), but that fear quickly gave way to the more natural inclination to resist absolute authority absolutely. Nobody was going to tell him what to do, not if he could help it. Nobody! Especially if unquestioning submission to authority meant limiting the unchequered happiness he chose to afford his own two feet! Interestingly, there was nothing at all perilous about the rest of his November costume. His brother's baggy hand-me-down corduroys protected his legs, a matching blue coat with a white fur-lined collar hid an old flannel shirt, and a bright red stocking cap fit snugly and contentedly over most of his unruly blond curls. There was even a matching bright red scarf to keep the wind off of his plump, pink-white face. He was warm and safe, ankle to crown. But the small boy simply didn't go in for wearing shoes, even when it was frostbite-cold outside. Because when it came to his delightfully free feet a little chilly air was flat-out insignificant, was virtually unnoticeable, and therefore an unnecessary thing to fear or worry over in any way. Nothing was going to get in the way of the wealth of good feelings he experienced, year round, simply by going barefoot. Nothing.

The woman now stood on the porch and looked in all directions. Her son looked down at the top of her head. He had climbed the ladder, one giant step at a time, and was now crouching quietly on the porch roof. From there he could survey the entire southeastern Iowa town of Washington, which wasn't difficult, because every town in Iowa is a small town. He could see the old soybean factory to the south, and the shiny-round Methodist Church dome (which looked just like his neat new silvery-smooth fireman's hat) and the flat greenness of the baseball field (long ago christened, in a perfectly brazen display of Midwestern simplicity, "Green Field"), and all the houses of everyone in the world he now chose to consider important. The view gave him a feeling of great power. And the view also warmed his heart, and filled him top to bottom with affection for all the segments, castes, and humble representatives of Humanity dwelling within his vast visual reach.... including affection even for those humans he did not actually know.

The woman called out again, but the small boy made himself keep quiet. He continued to peer straight down at the top of her head, at the blue and white checks of the bandanna hiding most of the shaggy auburn hair he knew she never had time to wash to make pretty for his dad until just before dinnertime, and he wanted to aim a drool at her head because he knew that because of the bandanna she wouldn't be too mad but he didn't because he knew it wasn't nice and because it would give him away.

Unable to find him the woman finally went back inside the square white house, back to her housework, and the wood-on-wood slam of the screen door made the small boy giggle. He had won. He had already been taught that this formless, confusing thing called "winning" was important. And of course he took great pleasure in deceiving his mother, maybe because, like all good mothers, she was always telling him what to do. But this small boy didn't like being told what to do, or wearing shoes, and so, shrouded in victory, he returned to the business at hand, which was jumping off the porch roof and into the pile of leaves. The jumps involved a drop of some seven or eight feet, but he wasn't afraid. As a matter of fact, he liked jumping into a pile of leaves better than just about anything. After all, he might have said were he older, what else is there to do in Iowa....

He jumped. The leaves reluctantly made room for the little body, voicing their protest with a gentle crunching sound. After all, Nature had decreed only that they should change color and fall, not that they should then be pulverized again and again by the hind end of this happy little boy. But the little boy didn't yet think seriously about such things. He wasn't nearly old enough for thinking seriously. For this was way way back when. Back when Ike was king and cares were few. And so, as he stretched out in the leaves, looking up at the puffy white clouds, his thoughts were the essence of pure, uncluttered joy. The world was his, and anything in it—including the leaves, the clouds, his house, and even his mother—was only valuable to the degree that it might supply him with pleasure.

There was a low buzzing sound. bzzzzzzzzz The little boy immediately shut his eyes. It couldn't be an airplane, he thought.... or even what he once overheard his grandmother nervously refer to as a "damn spudlick spaceship"; it was too close without being loud. He already knew airplanes and spaceships were loud.... and it wasn't the next-door neighbors' newfangled lectrik saw.... finally he sat up, opened his eyes, and instantly spied an unusually large black flying bug, which just this last summer he overheard his father refer to as a "bee". The bee was playing upon a rare green leaf, buzzing even as he sat, and the little boy couldn't understand why the bee was there. Shouldn't he have left with his friends a long time ago? Well, whatever the reason for the delay the little boy was glad for it. The old people were always telling terrible tales about these large black bugs, these flying buzzers, these bees, but he had no reason to fear them, no reason in his world, and he was proud to consider this particular black bee his friend. "Hi, bee!" he chortled, and the bee responded by lighting on the little boy's left big toe. The bee was larger than the toe, and wobbled to and fro trying to keep its balance. The little boy smiled and playfully wiggled his toes.

Then it happened. The bee's hind end rose up for an instant, and in a quick blur of motion it came down, driving something sharp, like a sewing needle, deep into the soft pink flesh. Then it was gone.

Legend has it that the scream which followed actually interrupted work down at the old soybean factory, ruined the timing of a perfectly plausible double play over at Green Field, floated all the way to Ainsworth and halfway to Kalona, and some of the old-timers that still live in Washington County maintain that it was heard even as far away as Columbus Junction. So magnificent, in fact, was this scream that it is still a conversation piece at PTA meetings and YMCA bean feeds, and in between rounds of bingo at Methodist Church socials, and its origin and cause are still hotly debated among the gossip-crazy housewives of the town. It was an epic scream if ever there was one, and the boy's good mother rushed alertly to the door to see what was the matter. The smile on her face said that she instantly understood....

The boy limped bravely to the house, dragging his swollen foot behind him. Both feet were strangely cold now. The look on his face cried out "Why?", but even his good mother lacked the tools to construct an answer. The boy would leave Iowa soon, and grow up in a strange new land, and lost, incredibly, somewhere within the relatively crisis-free chapters of his adolescence, would be any memory of the black bee. But as he huddled in his mother's arms, fighting back the tears, he couldn't possibly have known what a difference it might have made to his adult edition if he could only have remembered. Oh, if only he could have remembered.

A HAND OF POKER

"Go ahead and take it, if ya want.... but I know you cheated."

"Did not."

"Sure. That's what all you cheating scum-bags say."

"What makes y'think I'd cheat you, you crudhead."

"Everybody cheats. I saw you palm that dead card, Scrub, you know I saw you!"

"Y'want a fuckin' refund, man? We can split up the pot right now and deal over if y'want, y'know."

"Nah, it doesn't matter. Small pot, small potatoes. Just watch yer mouth in front of the whelp. I promised the folks."

"You sure?"

"Sure. Take the pot."

{.... The boy pulling in the chips is Harold "Scrubby" White, a family friend. His bored accuser is Ricky Barnes, fifteen years old, in charge of the house while his parents are away for the weekend. Tall, blessed with far less acne than his fellows, and finally beginning to grow some serious muscles, Ricky is well qualified for his unofficial role as Group Leader. Leaning over his shoulder is his younger brother Charlie, six years younger to be exact, and very anxious to get in the game: "Can I play?" he now queries boldly ...}

"No."

"Oh please, Ricky, pleeze let me play!"

"I said no. Poker is a man's game, it's not for annoying little punks."

"Who's a punk!" shrieked the younger brother, all arms and legs poking out of baggy plaid shorts and one of Ricky's old white T-shirts which was still too big for him, the kind with the pen pocket stitched to the left breast only. (The younger's curly blond head was constantly bobbing and pivoting this way and that, as if a great challenge for the scrawny frame supporting it.)

"Yer a punk, and if you'd like me to prove it I'll be more than happy to pound you," Ricky Barnes calmly suggested. "Remember. I'm in charge."

"Oh let'm play, Rick. Does he got any money?"

Charlie's huge head bobbed excitedly.

"Let'm play," Scrubby repeated with urgency. "At least we'll get his money."

"Okay, twerp, I guess you can play," Ricky decreed. "But no cryin' in yer beer once yer busted, okay?" Charlie nodded and took the seat at the kitchen table to Ricky's right, but scooted it back and over a few inches, in deference to his frail left arm, to avoid getting it pounded too badly if he ever won a hand.

"Hey Rick, isn't Lonny supposta show?"

As if in reply the kitchen door swung open with a creak and a groan and in shuffled another boy of fifteen, Lonny Atkinson. He was the tallest of them all. The spurt of growth had obviously occurred quite recently, his clothes clearly a couple of inches too small. A series of perfunctory grunts for greetings later he was sitting in the chair to Charlie's right, opposite Ricky. As Ricky counted out chips to the two new players, Charlie considered his brother's friend Lonny. He wasn't much like Ricky's other stupid friends, Charlie decided. For one thing, he wasn't much for talking. He never talked just to talk, but only when he actually had something important to say. That was something. And he carried these wire-rimmed glasses around in a glasses case, wherever he went.... and he was sort of funny-looking, 'speshly for a kid, almost ugly even.... and he had the blackest hair of all time. But the mostest thing that was different (no one had taught him yet, or rather convinced him, that mostest is not a real word) was that Lonny already had whiskers. Whiskers! Black whiskers too, as if to match his black hair, faded black jeans, and frayed black T-shirt. Gosh.... a real beard, the boy marveled, which is to say the near-authentic suggestion of a beard.... more like a stiff shaving brush of chin stubble, with black, smudgelike streaks of sideburn decorating each thoroughly pockmarked cheek. Even Ricky didn't have face hair. It would probably be forever until he had his own beard, Charlie correctly surmised....

"Okay here we go, gents, five card draw comin' atcha, guts fer openers, got a hunch bet a bunch," Ricky rattled off in purely professional poker-speak. His right hand was a blur. Indeed, the clockwise speed and spray of his older brother's dealing style reminded Charlie of their father's new pinwheel hose sprinkler. Charlie was always impressed by the way Ricky handled himself at the poker table, all those groovy terms and bitchin' slang phrases.... not to mention how easily his big teenage hands managed the deck. The boy was not yet ten, but he was smart, and he knew enough to know that Ricky was cool. And Charlie loved to gamble. Even as he sat—warm, content, and utterly aware of everything—within the soft, fraternal flame of his brother's select inner circle, he knew he loved to gamble, and that he would always love to gamble....

"Hey Rick, since we're playin' winner's choice ain't it my deal?"

"Yer not trustworthy enough to deal."

"Oh."

"Can I deal?"

The youngest player's request was ignored by all, and a rare breath of silence prevailed as all four players collected and sorted their cards. Charlie and Lonny glanced at each other, and Charlie smiled. But Lonny's face remained a wooden, humorless thing. It was something.... he was something....

"Hey dudes, y'know the Dodgers are back home this weekend, my dad's gonna take me to the game on Sunday," Scrubby said suddenly, and with great animation, as he tossed a red chip—valued at five cents—into the pot. It was a friendly game, so there was no ante: "Koufax is pitchin', we'll win easy."

Lonny carefully slipped on the wire-rimmed spectacles.

"I dunno, man, I heard on the radio that Koufax probably won't pitch," Ricky revealed with genuine portent and despair. "They say his crummy elbow is acting up again."

Continues...

---

Excerpted from L.A. Journal by C. Bradford Eastland Copyright © 2012 by C. Bradford Eastland. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---