The first part was posted here:
http://www.writingforums.com/fiction...requested.html
Thoughts, suggestions, problems welcome. Thanks again.
Again, some explicit language.
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Cal Ernest is an engineer. You wouldn't know it by looking at him. His foot-long grey beard, grey pony-tail, stained plaid coat, and clearly second-hand pants belie his long years at the university. Five years ago he graduated in the same class as Clarence. He was a non-tradtional student, arriving at the university late in life-- and staying late, too. A lot has changed since then.
Cal traces the familiar route from Chocco Park to Nine Twenty Winston Avenue. He is on foot today, though he has been known to ride a skateboard from time to time. Slung around his neck and under one arm is his cloth duffel bag, a container for every bit of his property that is mobile. His smile, which he wears frequently, is interrupted by a missing tooth on the bottom-right side. Another tooth, on the upper-left threatens to wiggle its way out of the socket. Cal is not concerned.
Cal is well known in Newdale. Not by name, mind you. Most people think of him as the man in the treehouse. He is the stuff of schoolchildren's legends. His solar-powered treehouse in Chocco Park is a sort of landmark for the Newdale residents. Just large enough to sleep two, it has slept one every night since Cal built it just under four years ago. Of course everything about the treehouse is wholly illegal. It is built, sans-permission, on public park land, without a permit, with undoubtedly unsound construction techniques. At the time of its construction Cal intended for it to be more of an experimental clubhouse than a permanent residence but circumstances changed.
The police don't give him a hard time. His treehouse is just within the wooded area of the park, so most people conduct their park business without ever seeing Cal, and therefore seldom thinking of him. Still, he worries that the police will come calling some morning and haul him off to an institution. The police came to visit shortly after his new construction was noticed. Cal refused to come down but engaged the officers in a friendly conversation for over an hour. When they left they told Cal to take it easy and keep to himself and he shouldn't have any problems from them. And that's how it is.
The sidewalks of Newdale are remarkable in that they are all in pristine condition. Under ten years old, well maintained, uniform. Uniform. That could describe all of Newdale. The houses are almost all new construction, from around the same time period. The designs are similar to the extent that, judging solely by houses, one could quickly become disoriented. Houses tend to have twins within a block in either direction; sometimes different colors, sometimes the same. Cal remembers when Winston Avenue was Old County Road K. Cal's father, before he passed, could remember when it was just County Road K. Newdale had a few farms in those days, but mostly just acres upon acres of trees. A mixed forest, some deciduous, some evergreens of many varieties. It looked a lot like Chocco Park does now, excepting that it was not surrounded by several hundred suburbanite mini-mansions. Unlike Cal, most of the residents of Newdale are new arrivals, drawn by the metro's economic gravity well but somehow, inexplicably, not drawn enough to settle within the inner city.
Nine Twenty Winston Avenue. The mailbox says LOWRY in reflective sticker-letters, a cheap contrast from the neighbors who have hand crafted wooden lettering and an engraved stone address block, respectively. The five year old blue Toyota in the driveway looks a bit crumpled. Cal rings the doorbell and peers inside the window. The walls are bare and the living room furniture consists of a loveseat, two chairs, an entertainment center, and a coffee table. It looks like a furniture store demo room, barely lived in, aside from the array of liquor bottles, glasses, ashtrays, wrappers, and other trash on the coffee table, a new addition to Clarence's living room ensemble.
Cal rings a second time. After another moment, a figure appears at the far end of the hallway. Clarence has a haggard look, stumbling to the door in old striped boxers and a T-shirt. The hair on the right side of his head sticks straight out from his scalp while the left side hugs his head tightly. He looks ill. Clarence struggles with the lock for a moment before letting Cal inside.
"Clarence, you look like shit man, are you okay?" Cal coughs as a wall of cigarette smoke hits his lungs.
"You're looking good too Cal. Listen, I'm going to jump in the shower for five minutes. Why don't you open a couple windows and have a seat? I'll be right with you."
"Okay..."
Cal pushes open every window in the living room and takes the opportunity to survey the damage on Clarence's coffee table. A small flask-sized bottle of tequila is conspicuously almost empty. Accompanying it on either side are bottles of triple-sec and lime juice. A large ashtray is conspicuously almost full of cigarette ashes and butts. A strawberry container is mostly empty, next to two limes and a salt shaker. Cal is concerned that this all has something to do with the crumpled bumper.
Cal distinctly hears the sound of vomiting from within the bathroom. "Clarence, are you okay in there?"
"Yeah, fine. I'm fine."
The stereo is on, but muted, in the entertainment center. Cal paces over and turns up the volume enough to drown out the sounds from the bathroom. It is the local college station. They're playing big band hits. It's annoying in a warm, nostalgic sort of way.
After several minutes of Billy Cotton's The Girl in the Little Green Hat, the lock pops on the bathroom door and Clarence steps out with a toothbrush still in his mouth. He still looks sick. Cal feels a bit relieved that he is no longer alone with Billy Cotton, though the song will run through his head all day. "There's a storm on the lake, there's a ship in the storm, there's a girl on the ship in the storm on the lake, and the girl on the lake on the ship in the storm, is the girl in the little green hat..."
"God, it still stinks in here. What time is it? You know what? I'm hungry... let's go get a taco."
The Winston Avenue El Torito is two blocks from Clarence's house and serves as his cafeteria on the weekends. Clarence and Cal seat themselves in the usual corner booth. Their waitress greets them by name and brings out lemonade and water. Menus are offered and declined. Both are having the usual.
"Now just what the hell is going on, Clarence? Your bumper is all crumpled, your coffee table is like a tavern dumpster, and you're beyond hung over."
"I met a girl."
"Some late-night company last night?"
"No. Just me."
"Just you went through that bottle of tequila and an ashtray full of cigarettes?"
"The bottle was already partly empty."
"Oh, well, in that case, never mind." Cal gestures broadly with both hands.
"So, I'm driving home last night, daydreaming a bit, when some asshole stops all the sudden in front of me. I slam on the brakes and stop. The car behind me slams on the brakes, the car behind that just plows right on, pushes us all together. It was a real brouhaha. Anyway, after I snap out of it and look around, I see this girl in the smashed up car behind me. She's beautiful. She reminds me of somebody, something... I don't know. The car is clearly totalled. Anyway, we get to talking while the police and tow truck stuff is happening. I offer to give her a ride home, she says she's hungry, so we have dinner. I think I love her."
"Uh huh... What makes you think that?" Cal nods casually.
"She told me to quit my job. I think she's an anarchist. She lives on a collective farm out on Bakunin Road."
"Is that all you know about her?"
"She likes tequila."
"Do you think you love her, or the idea of her?"
"What's the difference?"
The waitress delivers two taco platters. Cal immediately begins his hot sauce and salsa ritual. Clarence stares at his tacos, considering whether or not he can handle them. As Cal takes a messy hot sauce slathered bite, Clarence decides to push forward with his own meal. As the first bites descend into his stomach, his urge to smash his head against the wall subsides. His stomach begins to calm, too. A few moments of silent chewing pass.
"So what else happened? What was with your coffee table?" Cal drops his taco for a drink of water.
"We had dinner, I took her home, she was drunk. She kissed me."
"And?"
"And I came home with a lot on my mind, so I got wasted."
"You're a sad story, Clarence. So what now?"
"Good question. Probably go to work on Monday and try to forget this ever happened."
"Good luck."
"Thanks, so what can I do for you this weekend, Cal?"
"Your computer's on the fritz again. It keeps flipping over to battery backup when there is plenty of power on the photovoltaics. And then yesterday it kicked the heater on at three in the afternoon. It had to be eighty five degrees in there. I rebooted it three times. Nothing."
"Did you bring the drive?"
"Right here." Cal pats his duffel bag.
"I'll look at it tonight, and I'll try to get it back to you by tomorrow. Everything else working OK? The wifi is holding up?"
"Yeah, thanks man. The 'net phone is great. I've been doing a ton of calling. Mostly to people who don't want to hear from me, but that's their problem. Anyway, there's no rush. You know I went without when I first built the thing."
"I'll see what I can do."
