After a hiatus of Moore than a year, Windar and I have collaborated on a new story. It’s called “Southern Discomfort” and is set in a small college town in eastern Tennessee during the mid-1960s.
Here it is. Enjoy!
And as always, comments, banter, limericks and illustrations are welcome on the thread.
1
Kilmartin, Tennessee, 1:14 pm, Friday September 17, 1965
The day she stepped off that silver Greyhound bus the town was sweltering, engulfed as it was in the hot humid aftermath of Hurricane Betsy.
Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, she waited patiently as the bus driver retrieved her two pieces of luggage and set them down before her. After which she took it upon herself to thank him with a small tip. He nodded curtly, pocketed the coins and muttered something unintelligible as he returned to the driver’s seat, closed the bus door and pulled away.
Pivoting, she faced the small bus shelter, taking in the weathered overhead sign that read: Kilmartin Tennessee, pop. 4,327.
For better or worse, she’d arrived.
Seated on a nearby bench, was a young man. Dressed in faded bell-bottom jeans, a black tee that seemed a size too small for his large torso and muscled arms, and sporting a mop of long curly blond hair, he appeared to be studying her closely … giving her the “once over” that she had long since grown accustomed to getting from men.
His gaze lingered over her toned and tanned legs, which were bared from her sandal-clad feet to mid-thigh. Then on to her paisley-print “A-line” mini-skirt and navy blue polyester wide-collared shirt, before coming to rest on her face … the most appealing features of which were an invitingly full mouth, doe-like brown eyes set above a light band of freckles bridging a slightly upturned nose. She wore her red-highlighted brown hair long, reaching down her back nearly to her waist.
He stood up abruptly, extinguished a half-smoked cigarette beneath the toe of his boot, sauntered lazily over to her, extended his hand and drawled, “You that new Yankee teacher for up yonder at the Academy?”
She turned her head to look off in the direction to which he was pointing … down a nearly deserted Main Street and on to a cluster of red brick, classically porticoed buildings perched high on a slope overlooking the town … before replying, “why yes, that’s right, I’ve come to take up a position there teaching American history.”
“Alright then, Ah was sent down heah to pick ya up. They been expecting ya. Name’s Billy-Bob McDougall.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m Barbara … Barbara Moore.”
“That’s my pickup over yonder, let me help ya with that.” He offered, brushing past her to lay a hand on her bags.
“Thank you. And thanks for coming down here to pick me up.”
“It’s nothin’”
“I appreciate it all the same. Now tell me, Billy-Bob, is it always this hot here? I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Nah, up ‘round heah in western Great Smokies country, it’s usually right pleasant this time a year. It’s the hurricane last week that’s made it so hot and sticky. Don’t ya worry yer self none. It won’t last long.”
“Well, that’s a relief. So, Billy-Bob … you work for the Academy too?”
“Jest odds and ends when they asks,” he replied as he carelessly tossed her luggage onto the rust-encrusted back decking of his pickup truck. “Get yerself ‘round to the other side and hop in now and we’ll be off.”
She did as instructed, and in the process caught him eyeing her legs again as she seated herself. Tugging self-consciously at her short skirt, she decided as a means of distraction to engage him further about her soon to be place of employment.
“So, from what I’ve been able to gather in the process of applying for my teaching position at the Academy, the place has quite a storied history.”
“Yeah, that’s a fact. Started out as one of them military academies. Trained some of the old Confederacy’s best regimental officers, so it’s said. But over the years things kindawent downhill, so a few years back it reinvented itself as a co-ed college fer stuck-up rich kids … kept the name “Academy” though.”
“So, I gathered. The Dean who hired me following my phone interview said as much. His name is Windar. Do you know him?”
“Yeah, ahh do,” he replied as he downshifted two gears to negotiate the long steep climb up the Allee leading to the Academy’s main building. “Not from these parts … one of them New Yorkers … a Yankee like yerself.”
“Hold on there! I’m from Minnesota. Not exactly anything like New York,” she chided him gently.
“To folks ‘round here, yer all Yankees,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I suppose that’s so … and the students? From around here or elsewhere?”
“Not many from up North where yer from. Some from ‘round these parts, though it costs a pretty penny to be a student heah, a penny some folks ‘round heah jest don’t have. So a lot of ‘em have money and come from heah and thar ‘round the South, and from big places like Knoxville, Charlotte, Charleston, Savannah and Atlanta.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So Barbara … why are you taking a job heah rather than some place up North.”
“History is a tough job market, Billy-Bob. One takes what one can get.”
“Not planning to stick around any longer than ya has to then?”
“Well, we’ll see …”
“Suspect that’s so … well, heah we are … Old Main. You’ll find the administrative offices upstairs on the second and third floors. Where does ya want yer bags?”
“I think I’ve been assigned a room in one of the dormitories until I’m able to make better arrangements. Perhaps you could find out where that is and leave my bags there?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks so much Billy-Bob!” She called as she slid from her seat to the pavement and backed away from the truck.
“Good luck with the Dean,” he called as he gunned the engine and winked slyly.
“What does that mean?”
He shot her a crooked smile and drove off.
TBC
Here it is. Enjoy!
And as always, comments, banter, limericks and illustrations are welcome on the thread.
SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT
1
Kilmartin, Tennessee, 1:14 pm, Friday September 17, 1965
The day she stepped off that silver Greyhound bus the town was sweltering, engulfed as it was in the hot humid aftermath of Hurricane Betsy.
Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, she waited patiently as the bus driver retrieved her two pieces of luggage and set them down before her. After which she took it upon herself to thank him with a small tip. He nodded curtly, pocketed the coins and muttered something unintelligible as he returned to the driver’s seat, closed the bus door and pulled away.
Pivoting, she faced the small bus shelter, taking in the weathered overhead sign that read: Kilmartin Tennessee, pop. 4,327.
For better or worse, she’d arrived.
Seated on a nearby bench, was a young man. Dressed in faded bell-bottom jeans, a black tee that seemed a size too small for his large torso and muscled arms, and sporting a mop of long curly blond hair, he appeared to be studying her closely … giving her the “once over” that she had long since grown accustomed to getting from men.
His gaze lingered over her toned and tanned legs, which were bared from her sandal-clad feet to mid-thigh. Then on to her paisley-print “A-line” mini-skirt and navy blue polyester wide-collared shirt, before coming to rest on her face … the most appealing features of which were an invitingly full mouth, doe-like brown eyes set above a light band of freckles bridging a slightly upturned nose. She wore her red-highlighted brown hair long, reaching down her back nearly to her waist.
He stood up abruptly, extinguished a half-smoked cigarette beneath the toe of his boot, sauntered lazily over to her, extended his hand and drawled, “You that new Yankee teacher for up yonder at the Academy?”
She turned her head to look off in the direction to which he was pointing … down a nearly deserted Main Street and on to a cluster of red brick, classically porticoed buildings perched high on a slope overlooking the town … before replying, “why yes, that’s right, I’ve come to take up a position there teaching American history.”
“Alright then, Ah was sent down heah to pick ya up. They been expecting ya. Name’s Billy-Bob McDougall.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m Barbara … Barbara Moore.”
“That’s my pickup over yonder, let me help ya with that.” He offered, brushing past her to lay a hand on her bags.
“Thank you. And thanks for coming down here to pick me up.”
“It’s nothin’”
“I appreciate it all the same. Now tell me, Billy-Bob, is it always this hot here? I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Nah, up ‘round heah in western Great Smokies country, it’s usually right pleasant this time a year. It’s the hurricane last week that’s made it so hot and sticky. Don’t ya worry yer self none. It won’t last long.”
“Well, that’s a relief. So, Billy-Bob … you work for the Academy too?”
“Jest odds and ends when they asks,” he replied as he carelessly tossed her luggage onto the rust-encrusted back decking of his pickup truck. “Get yerself ‘round to the other side and hop in now and we’ll be off.”
She did as instructed, and in the process caught him eyeing her legs again as she seated herself. Tugging self-consciously at her short skirt, she decided as a means of distraction to engage him further about her soon to be place of employment.
“So, from what I’ve been able to gather in the process of applying for my teaching position at the Academy, the place has quite a storied history.”
“Yeah, that’s a fact. Started out as one of them military academies. Trained some of the old Confederacy’s best regimental officers, so it’s said. But over the years things kindawent downhill, so a few years back it reinvented itself as a co-ed college fer stuck-up rich kids … kept the name “Academy” though.”
“So, I gathered. The Dean who hired me following my phone interview said as much. His name is Windar. Do you know him?”
“Yeah, ahh do,” he replied as he downshifted two gears to negotiate the long steep climb up the Allee leading to the Academy’s main building. “Not from these parts … one of them New Yorkers … a Yankee like yerself.”
“Hold on there! I’m from Minnesota. Not exactly anything like New York,” she chided him gently.
“To folks ‘round here, yer all Yankees,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I suppose that’s so … and the students? From around here or elsewhere?”
“Not many from up North where yer from. Some from ‘round these parts, though it costs a pretty penny to be a student heah, a penny some folks ‘round heah jest don’t have. So a lot of ‘em have money and come from heah and thar ‘round the South, and from big places like Knoxville, Charlotte, Charleston, Savannah and Atlanta.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So Barbara … why are you taking a job heah rather than some place up North.”
“History is a tough job market, Billy-Bob. One takes what one can get.”
“Not planning to stick around any longer than ya has to then?”
“Well, we’ll see …”
“Suspect that’s so … well, heah we are … Old Main. You’ll find the administrative offices upstairs on the second and third floors. Where does ya want yer bags?”
“I think I’ve been assigned a room in one of the dormitories until I’m able to make better arrangements. Perhaps you could find out where that is and leave my bags there?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks so much Billy-Bob!” She called as she slid from her seat to the pavement and backed away from the truck.
“Good luck with the Dean,” he called as he gunned the engine and winked slyly.
“What does that mean?”
He shot her a crooked smile and drove off.
TBC
