Writer showcase #5
Walker Joe

walkerj@ct.net

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Joe J. Hancock lounged near the swimming pool watching the sunset over a serene ten-acre lake. Clusters of tall pine trees and indigenous flowering shrubs circled the lake, adding the finishing touches to an already picturesque view. However lovely, though, the lake had proved as lifeless as the Dead Sea. He hadn't caught a fish in over a week, although four dozen crickets had drowned. He thought about quitting, but he didn't have a hell of a lot else to do and occasionally he'd catch a mess of catfish. The taste alone was worth the aggravation of skinning the slippery devils.

Pepper, his overweight black and tan Dachshund, lay near panting and impatiently waiting for Joe to give him a smack of the schnapps. He fetched his small bowl and nudged it even closer to Joe. Steadily, he chased shadows of flying things that ventured near the screen covering the pool, and the game whetted his thirst. But Pepper's quixotic and weird traits were why Joe loved him so dearly. The June sun had cooled as afternoon shadows lengthened. The pastel clouds, he saw floating lazily through the late afternoon sky reminded Joe of the colors prominent in New Orleans' Vieux Carré.

Joe felt tired and rheumatic, and he knew the reason why. Earlier he engaged a priest in a hotly contested tennis match, which went to a tiebreaker in the third set. The long match explained why every joint in his body hurt. His alter ego kept saying, "You're growing old, tiger."

A week earlier, July 13, 1992, he celebrated his sixty-second birthday. He remembered thinking that time seems to change dimensions as the hair grays and thins. And wrinkles deepen. Thus, the Trinity had become a more compelling belief. Associating with a priest, he hoped, might improve his chances of gaining an invitation to pass through the pearly gates.

Before playing tennis, he worked at his computer five hours writing a historical romance and adventure about a desirable creature, named Rose Rénaud. Writing was a new hobby. One he hoped to cultivate. Joe wondered if he possessed the passion, persistence and patience to finish the story.

Getting a book published would add a feather to my hat and boost my ego. Any one worth two cents has some of that. He chuckled softly. My chances are less than a three-legged armadillo crossing I-10, during the rush hour.

Retirement came for Joe several months earlier when the State of Louisiana offered him an early retirement package. They were unloading the high paid, old-wood and deadwood, which in Joe's opinion didn't include him. He knew big companies always keep a few brown-nosing do-nothings around to fawn senior management.

He'd risen from Junior Design Engineer to Department Manager. Such success is unusual for a guy who never learned the art of kissing up or how to play golf. Joe's success was due to hard work and his ability to get results. Joe knew that management tolerates a high producer regardless of their disposition. They had tolerated him. Actually, he worked harder than any person under him did, and he was fair to all

A few months after Joe accepted the package, Laura, his wife, closed her pediatric practice and they moved to this sleepy community sequestered on the Louisiana gulf coast. New Orleans had become too big, too busy, too commercial, too everything. People called it the Big Easy now, but it was no longer easy to take. Even the jazz on Bourbon Street sounded perverted and banal.

They were working on their second million, but not awfully hard. Laura's parents were well off and they stood to inherit over one million dollars from them. Joe wasn't frantically searching for a publisher because of this.

Hell, he thought, I might spend five-grand and publish it myself. "Rose, Ma Petite." The title has a nice sound to it, and there might be a few thousand people who'd desire reading about a beautiful paragon who left naughty Paris in 1864, found love and riches in New Orleans, and built a mansion named Cajun Manor.

He turned knowing the soft footsteps belonged to Laura. He found her petite, shapely frame astonishing considering her age and the birth of two children. She was as beautiful as ever. And he was really pleased noticing the beer she carried.

"What are you two characters doing? Pepper looks too happy. Have you been feeding him beer?" She sat the beer on the table by him and leaned down and lightly kissed his mouth.

"Come on Baby. You know I don't disobey your orders." His smile was beguiling.

"Well, he looks pretty contented, and not to happy I showed up. He hasn't wagged his tail once."

Her eyes swept the full seventy-four inches of her husband's stretched out masculine anatomy. He was still handsome and firm in most places. The aging process had been kind to him. She knew why. Thirteen years earlier he'd shed fifty pounds of ugly lard after he started playing tennis and riding a bike, and ten years before that he stopped smoking.

He patted her lightly on her bottom and gave her a roguish glance. The corners of her mouth crinkled. "Down Boy. I've got to put the dishes in the dishwasher. You know Shelly took the day off."

"Hey, Babe, I don't get these urges often, but you already know that."

"Joey, that makes us even. I'll leave you two bon companions for my boring chore." As she turned to leave, several more thoughts occurred.

A smile beamed on a face deeply wrinkled from years of animation. His thoughts were about their two kids. Kids! They were more than thirty and the grandchildren were nearly teens. His son and daughter had given them a grandson and granddaughter. Joe took a swig of beer and sighed. He felt warmth creeping up his spine. Joe Junior and his kids were coming on Friday. Joyfully, he looked forward to it since a tennis match was planned, Joe Senior and Jenny against Joe Junior and Joe the third.

Pepper, impatient now, rose on his haunches. He nudged the bowl again and pleaded with reddish-brown eyes. He looked first to Joe and then to the bowl.

"Pepper, baby, your mistress has given me strict orders to quit giving you beer." His tail wagged wildly. He knew from the resignation in his master voice that Joe was about to give in.

Joe opened the fresh beer and poured several ounces into his bowl. I'm killing my baby with kindness. Poor devil's five pounds overweight. That was considerable for a normal sized twelve-pound Dachshund.

His mind strayed to the moment he first laid eyes on Laura. He was on a train headed for air force basic training at Lackland, AFB near San Antonio, Texas. That same train trip also brought into his life Shirley, an older femme fatale, who brought him a long way toward manhood. She extended him an invitation to visit her in New Orleans after he completed basic training. Her ulterior motives became known years later.

And then, there was that earth-shaking discovery at Cajun Manor when he went to New Orleans to visit Laura six years later. The shocking discovery caused Joe much consternation through the years. He was amazed and pleased the secret was kept so long. Fortunately, Laura never knew. Had she, their wedding plans would have ended abruptly and their beautiful memories denied.

His mind raced back to March 1956, when he traveled the rails to New Orleans to visit Laura during spring break.

***

Laura stopped at the street. She looked back smiling and waving frantically. The GM's motor roared and the back tires squealed. She sped away like a dragster. Unsurprisingly, she replaced the rear tires often.

On their way from Audubon Park, they agreed she wouldn't see him off. Too many seedy characters hung out at train stations. Their blissful goodbye had been expressed at Audubon Park. He looked to the heavens. Clouds clustered and darkened as though enraged by something they saw below. A sudden feeling of loneliness smothered his apprehension about menacing clouds. Laura disappeared only a minute ago and already he missed her.

While purchasing a coach ticket, he learned the train was two hours late. Signal malfunctions caused the delayed arrival, and it wasn't expected 'til around six-thirty. He had three hours to waste. Instantly, the idea of having one nostalgic look at Cajun Manor struck him like a kick from a mule. The idea materialized so quickly he was bewitched. His first notion was to forget it. A glimpse of Cajun Manor might stir up memories based on spurious and empty feelings, but the idea persisted.

Again, he felt that nagging, haunting force that sought the logical explanation for Shirley's strange behavior. The sinister foreboding he'd felt for the past seven years returned stronger than ever.

Returning to the mansion might result in an exorcist of the evil haunting. Damn it, I'll go! Hopefully, I'll get relief for my tormented soul.

Joe put his bag in a lockup and headed out front. He passed three waiting cabs then climbed into the head cab. "Where too, Suh?" came out of the mouth of an older Negro man.

"Number fifty on Third Avenue. It's in the Garden District."

"Yas, Suh. I kno's dat place."

The cab pulled away from the curb sharply. In minutes it moved along St. Charles Avenue. The Sunday traffic was sparse. Thirty seconds later, the cab turned on Third Avenue. Joe felt a rush of warmth inside. "Driver, please drop me at the curb."

The driver snapped back, "Yas, Sah! One dollar and sixty-five cents, Suh."

"How much, please?" Overawed by the site of that beautiful nineteenth century mansion, he didn't hear the driver.

"One buck sixty-five, Suh."

Joe found two dollars and change and passed it to the driver. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, mister."

Joe climbed out. He was standing in the middle of the banquette staring at Cajun Manor, a beautiful mansion built by Rose Rénaud, Shirley's great-grandmother, shortly after the Civil War. He felt silly as all get out. He'd seen many of these old relics before and recently. If you've seen one, you've seen them all, he thought, but his thought couldn't be further from the truth.

The facade had been recently painted eggshell white. Spring flowers glowed in vivid and varied hues, dazzling his eyes. The aroma permeating the early afternoon radiance blended, filling his nostrils and rendering him slightly light-headed. And the lush green lawn was beautifully manicured, as was the shrubbery.

A black Cadillac sat in the circular driveway and a new Corvette was parked at the side of the house.

Shirley is still blessed with the good life.

However, he wasn't sure he was happy for her, or that he thought she deserved such good fortune, as he'd felt the first time he'd laid eyes on Cajun Manor.

His craving was satisfied after only a few nostalgic glances. Seeing Cajun Manor did not caused the chimes of spring to sound, but for a few seconds the passion and emotions he experienced there were so vivid he felt a brief rapturous feeling all over.

I might walk downtown and see a movie. My train doesn't leave for Atlanta for over two hours.

As he turned to leave, the front door flung wide and a boy, who looked to be about fourteen, rushed playfully onto the veranda.

That has to be her son, Billy.

Shirley followed, holding the hand of a small girl, who appeared to be about six. They took seats on the white, wrought iron chairs. Joe, to avoid detection, moved along to a hedgerow to be less conspicuous. Before ducking behind the hedge, he looked back. He could not believe his eyes. A stunning redhead and small boy, about the same age as the girl, appeared on the veranda. He was too far away to be absolutely certain, but the flaming redhead looked like Jill. The sunglasses she wore appreciably masked her identity.

Shirley, Billy and the girl rose from their chairs and all five headed down the front steps to the Cadillac. Billy helped the girl into the front seat and followed. Shirley went around the car and took the driver's seat. The redhead sat in back with the boy. They were dressed in their Sunday finery, and Joe wondered where they were going at four on a Sunday afternoon. It was too early for dinner and too late for Mass.

The Cadillac moved around the circular driveway and entered Third Avenue. Joe had walked way beyond the driveway and was walking in the opposite direction to hide his face. He refrained from looking back, although, he was dying to have a closer look. His imagination blazed out off control.

The memory of the Dear John letter he received seven years earlier flashed in his mind. Shirley admitted she'd met a new acquaintance and was having an affair.

Is Jill the new acquaintance Shirley mentioned in the letter? Hell, it's feasible. I told Jill about Shirley on the train the day after I left her in New Orleans. I also mentioned Cajun Manor by name. If Jill's the new acquaintance, what kind of a relationship could they be having: friendship, business or lesbian?

Joe learned Jill was bisexual shortly after he met her on the train, but he found it impossible to believe that Shirley was so disposed. The idea was utterly absurd, he reasoned, remembering the passionate encounters they enjoyed together during his 1949 visit.

They must be just friends. Jill could be renting an apartment. She knew about the apartments on the first floor, because I told her about it. This idea makes more sense, but it doesn't explain who drew Shirley away from me.

Having satisfied his curiosity about the two ladies, his thoughts turned to the small boy and girl.

They might explain the strange premonitions that have haunted me over the last seven years, envisioning each lady with someone else. The two ladies acted like mothers, but I was far away, and possibly I misinterpreted their body language.

Joe remembered sensuously the raw sex he and Shirley engaged in and with Jill in Atlanta the day after he left Shirley. Events and dates shuttled through his mind.

I was in New Orleans early July '49. My affair with Jill happened the night after I left New Orleans. Adding six years and nine months to that date, creates an April '56 date. It's now early April '56. The children looked to be about six.

He realized quite amazed and stunned he had possibly sowed two wild oats only a few days apart. The thought sent a current of fear through him.

"God! I hope I'm wrong," he groaned. "The odds against it are enormous, but I have to know the truth."

The truth would wait for at least nine months until Joe graduated from college. He was rushing back to Atlanta to register for Georgia Tech's summer term. Nothing in the world was going to divert him from earning a degree in civil engineering. This had become the single most important obsession in his life. Besides, the world had continued turning for seven years and would likely continue turning 'til he returned to seek the facts. He left for the picture show deep in thought.

***

Joe's train to Atlanta clickety-claked out of the New Orleans station at half-past-five, several hours late. The usual problems, signal malfunctions, had caused the delay. He smiled. If the train system didn't have signals they might get somewhere on time.

The smile withered.

Hell, signals prevent head on collisions. Many exciting encounters have happened to me on trains over the past seven years, of which, two might be astonishing, if not absolutely uncanny. And I met Laura.

He watched the shadows of tall and short things lengthening as the sun, some cooler now, sneaked quietly, slowly, begrudgingly into the west. His mind was further deluged with pleasant thoughts of Laura and the glorious time they spent together. Their love had blossomed fully, and they talked about marriage after graduation. He was fulfilled with this fruition.

Discovering the possibility of fathering a son and daughter sent an Arctic chill down his spine.

I may have over reacted. There are at least one thousand other plausible explanations.

The shock dampened quickly after these thoughts. He pushed his concerns to a deep cavity in his brain. It would dwell there 'til he completed college. Joe crossed his legs, on the empty seat in front, lit a smoke, and reflected on his last seven years on terra firma.

Chapter 1

On a cool, breezy, morning quite typical of springtime in the Peach State, a powerful diesel locomotive tugged one dinning car and seven passenger cars out of a great southern city.

"Clickety clak ---- Clickety clak---Clickety clak -- Clickety-clak." The tempo gradually increased. Clicketyclak.

Tall buildings bathed in radiant sunlight were being distanced.

Atlanta, the night before was deluged with rain and these buildings were thoroughly washed, but the rain had not reach and cleansed the evil inside their walls. Joe Hancock sat in a half-filled passenger car hiding misty eyes, staring soulfully out upon a world that had turned on him. Failure and regret was the cause of Joe's despondency. He'd flunked out of Georgia Tech. His dream of becoming a civil engineer shattered for now.

Joe Hancock sat for a spell lamenting his failure and listening to the hypnotic sound and feeling the tempo of the wheels striking the rail separations. When his eyes dried, he glanced around. Passengers were busy searching for cards, games and books to occupy their time. Joe surmised those flapping their jaws talked about the spectacular weather and wondered when the diner started serving.

The scene was effervescent. Not one sad face did he observe. Eyes sparkled with thoughts of far away places and adventure.

The world is treating me unfairly, but my self-pity has no justification. I brought the shame upon myself. Insatiable wanderlust is my enemy. Wanderlust is the reason I failed.

Joe'd shown cowardice by not going home. This additional lack of character had intensified his shame. His parents would be devastated when they learned of his failure. He heard his mother's homily plain as day. "Your father and I have worked our fingers to the bone trying to keep you, your sister, and brother in college, and this is the thanks we get." Unable to muster the courage to face her, he'd joined the U.S. Air Force. The train hightailed for New Orleans where a train connection for San Antonio, Texas would wait. There, Private Hancock would encounter the rigors of air force basic training at Lackland, AFB.

As the train trundled through the hilly countryside of North Georgia, the smell of diesel smoke overwhelmed scents of wild flowers, clinging hungrily to the indigenous red earth. Regrettably, the acrid smoke reminded Joe of wintertime when dark smoke belched from chimneys. Winter was football, basketball and hunting time, and Joe drifted back in memory. A warm smile displaced a sad face for a moment. He remembered Doctor Joe Williams, the Hancock's family doctor. He was the most gentle and humble human being he'd ever known. Doctor Joe had brought him into this world.

* * *

Doctor Joe's gentle hands took me from my mother's womb. He slapped my back, bringing breath of life to my lungs, a soft scream from my small mouth, and a sigh of joy and relief from Momma. Doctor Joe might have done the world a big disfavor. I've wasted my first big opportunity to be someone important. I'm a darn loser, a good-for-nothing loser.

My birth took place at our residence on First Street. Years later Momma told me the hospital had burned to the ground. Now, I suspect money had been the real reason. Another hospital stood a few miles away.

When childhood diseases came, big Doctor Joe came to my bedside, took my hand, and looked down at me with his kind, calm, blue-gray eyes. "What's wrong Joey. You don't feel so good?" The words flowed like cold sorghum. The mere touch of his hands and the compassion discernible in his voice made me feel better. And Doctor Joe was always willing to wait for his money. The world wasn't so materialistic.

I think Momma did good naming me Joseph, although I wished she'd given a name to my middle initial. I never liked it when a few called me JJ. Often I wished I were born in a big city. It would eliminate the need to explain the location of Uvalda. It made me feel like a hick.

***

Whoooo!

Whoooo!

The locomotive's whistling interrupted thoughts of short pants, barefoot summers and athletic winters. The terrain looked flatter now. Joe presumed the train was in Alabama. New Orleans was five hundred miles away, and the 7pm-arrival time seemed about right, considering the train barreled along at speeds exceeding sixty miles-per-hour. Joe's train for San Antonio was scheduled to depart forty-five minutes later. A taste of Bourbon Street, he dreamed about, was out unless the connecting train was delayed.

Joe had heard about the carnal atmosphere that pervades Bourbon Street after the sun is swallowed by the Mississippi: the hot jazz, the sizzling strip joints, and the friendly ladies with painted faces and garish attire, offering themselves for a price. He was pushing nineteen, and his hormone production had peaked. Curiosity about earthly matters was normal. The fact his flesh tingled and his crotch swelled, at the mere thoughts, was a natural manifestation of his youth.

Fantasies of Bourbon Street set Joe's imagination on fire and the sounds of the legendary Louis 'Satchmo' Armstrong's shrill tones, bellowing from the bell of his hot horn, were real enough in his mind. Joe played the trumpet, and Armstrong was a player he tried to imitate. He listened to 'Pops' for hours on end. Then Joe heard phantom echoes of his raspy vocal treatment of the classic blues tune, 'Jelly Roll'.

"I ain't going to give you none of my jelly roll. Ain't going to give you none to save my soul. Save my soul. Jelly! Jelly roll! ba-ba ba-zu-bi doo."

Joe thought, hot blues with a kick, happy, happy, feet stomping stuff. He lit a cigarette, laid back, and sucked a deep drag into his lungs. He exhaled smoke rings while listening to his stomach growling furiously. His fine watch, his father gave him for graduation, registered two minutes until eleven. Now he knew why his belly complained, emptiness. Lazybones had risen too late for breakfast.

Joe alighted and headed for the diner. He craved steak and eggs, but doubted if breakfast was still being served. His craving was wishful thinking. The per diem the recruiting sergeant furnished afforded much less.

Hell, the picayune sum will barely cover the fare of a sandwich and beer or perhaps several beers, considering my blue mood. And I need money for five meals. So far, I've never missed a meal for the lack of money.

The motion of the train caused him to brace onto seats. He passed the hoi polloi torpid in the late morning sun. Some slept deeply while others snored, and a few read with eyes half open. He espied paramours, or possibly just lovers, cuddled together smooching, and jealousy and yearning took him.

Entering the second car, his eyes found a young lady whose looks were breathtaking. Her angelic face was endowed with delicate features perfectly proportioned. Her shiny, midnight hairs sprawled halfway down her back. She was absolutely stunning.

Nearing the angel his big, brown eyes embraced pale-blue eyes sparkling more radiantly than the sun's reflections off a Caribbean Sea. He observed her shapely, petite figure draped in clothes that were cool, comfortable and expensive. The lacy, silk shirt, with decollate bodice, fit her upper torso snugly. The shirt tucked into an indigo colored skirt slit high on one side, drawing his attention to shapely, bare legs that merited savoring more than once. His senses soared.

While he admired her sexuality, she eyed his sinewy body. Years of athletics had developed Joe's well-proportioned, six-foot-two frame. His body had no unsightly fat to detract from his wholesome appearance. The tight blue jeans and tank top, tightly covering his skin, proved the point; just 170 pounds of firm muscles wrapped around a big-bone frame. Her scrutiny was thorough, and yes, she felt mild physical attraction. This was about as far as ladies allowed themselves to go.

She looked up, smiling placidly, when he was only a few feet away. Joe's heart hammered at the prospects. He returned her smile and continued walking, wondering if she found him interesting.

Or is she just being cordial?

Joe reckoned her ticket took her New Orleans. He figured this fact allowed time for him to soothe the growl in his belly then make a move on her. If he was to enjoy success, an irresistible come-on was essential. He needed a soft shoulder to cry on. Oh! God! He needed a soft shoulder to cry on in the worse way.

He passed through another passenger car and into the diner. The ambience was languid and his spirit plummeted. At a table near the entrance, a trio of old dowagers sat in lacy, frilly elegance, enjoying conviviality afforded from the dower of their deceased husbands and spreading rumors about affairs with lewd innuendo and getting their jollies. An additional handful of doting elders, with benign faces, wrinkled like dried prunes, were dispersed about eating an early lunch and talking, conceivably about lewd matters, but more likely their favorite ailments. The sprinkling of snow-white hair gave credence to the latter assumption. Most likely only a small fire burned in their furnaces, calming their interest in subjects with lewd content.

They could be dirty old men.

The potential for adventure appeared hopeless after these quick observations. Unexpectedly, he spotted a blonde bombshell in her early thirties sitting alone, stiff from boredom. His spirit took a quantum leap when her availability occurred to him.

Let's put first things first. She's not going away. My stomach is demanding food and drink. My Welshman's libido can wait.

 He looked her over admiringly and acknowledged her coquettish glance with a friendly nod. Her blond hair was so professionally coiffured he thought she was a real blond until he was within touching distance. She smiled prettily. Her large cat eyes purred from raised eyebrows as he passed and continued to the bar.

Her right hand flaunted a diamond the size of an ice cube and an expensive watch adorned her left wrist. I think this doll's unencumbered. Trouble I don't need. I don't have to look for it. It has a way of picking me out of a crowd.

He reached the bar. Joe selected the corner seat so he could flirt with the blonde, who was ordering something from the diminutive bartender. Joe reached for a cigarette, put it between thin lips, and pitched the pack on the bar. In less time than it takes to swat a fly, Shorty, with the snow-white top, was there to light it. "Good afternoon, Suh, what may I'z git fo' you?" he asked politely. His dark eyes met Joe's squarely. He seemed thrilled as all get out to have company.

"I'd like a beer and a burger all the way, please." Joe sucked a deep breath of air. "What time do we make New Orleans?"

"Yas! Sah!" he snapped sharply, seemingly ignoring Joe's question and went a few steps to get a glass and a beer from the cooler.

He was neatly uniformed in black pants, red coat, white shirt and black bow tie, and he moved sprightly for someone pushing three score and ten. Returning, he placed the glass on a coaster, opened it, and skillfully filled the glass. He looked at Joe and smiled pleasantly. "Mister, this 'ere train is due in N'Awlins at ten passed seven tonight if'n all goes well. Sometime we has signal problems and dat kin delay us several hours." He excused himself to mix and serve the blonde a Tom Collins.

Joe took several big gulps of beer. His mouth was drier than a box of rice, and his doleful spirit sought rekindling. The bartender's words circled the periphery of his brain while the mass assessed the exciting possibilities confronting him, two chances to score. I hope for luck or charm or whatever it takes to succeed. I need an interesting diversion to take my mind off my miserable failure. Blonde looks like an easier target. I know she'll be more understanding of my needs with fewer strings attached. I'm not looking for a commitment or a lengthy romance. I need pampering and I'll stoop to sweet-talk if it becomes necessary. I think the beautiful blue-eyed brunette is too young and untarnished to offer the tea and sympathy I need.Joe's mind was stuck in a groove. Guilt ensued. What's happened to that sweet, innocent and naive country boy? He realized he had grown precocious during his teen years.

 Joe flicked the ashes from the cigarette burning within an inch of his long, slim fingers. His hands were made for playing the piano. Thoughts turned again to what Sam said about signal delays. "Well, I hope the train doesn't encounter signal problems today. The U.S. Air Force expects my butt in San Antonio, Texas, tomorrow. I have to make a train connection in New Orleans. I don't want to be counted AWOL." His response was idle conversation.

 "Shucks, mister, I wouldn't worry 'bouts dat cause da air force ain't goin' to do nothin' to ya if ya's got a good excuse." His voice was lyrical. His face calm and untroubled. He read Joe's reply as a serious concern, and he wanted to console him.

 "Thanks, man. That's good to know." Joe poured the last drop of beer into the glass, rubbed out the smoke, and lit another. "I'd like another beer, please."

 Joe crossed his legs and glanced out of the window. Freshly plowed fields were evident. Flocks of blackbirds cast very short shadows in the noonday sun, while canvassing the plowed earth searching for worms. A frown puckered Joe's face. He hated blackbirds. They were mean, blood thirsty predators who preyed on smaller birds' nest.

 Occasionally the natural light dimmed suggesting the sun played dodge with lazy clouds rolling around in the sky. An envious feeling swelled inside him.

I wished all I had to do were to roll around the heavens all day and escape into a cloud. My envy is uncalled for. My escape cloud is the air force where I hope to do some rolling around the world satisfying my uncontrollable wanderlust.

He knew shedding the wanderlust was paramount if he was to return to Tech and complete his dream of earning a civil engineering degree. Joe's intellect was never challenged in high school, and his assumption that Tech was easy was flawed.

As this small, gentleman, who Joe found immensely likable, turned to fetch the beer and burger, Joe glanced back at the blonde. She eyed him with keenness brave and full of purpose. Her eyes, like emeralds, seemed to purr, meow, meow. He was thrilled knowing her expression said come and get me. Her last come-hither stare convinced him.

One more meow out of her and I won't be able to restrain myself.

 Smelling the burger, Joe tore his eyes away. The bartender poured beer while Joe watched with utter amazement. He expected the glass to have a thick head, considering how sharply the train rolled, but he didn't spill a single drop or produce bubbles. "He's poured a million in his career," Joe mumbled.

The bartender had observed the peek-a-boo coquetry Joe had staged with the blonde. "Pretty woman, Suh?" Sam said, grinning sheepishly with a pair of pearly, dentist-bought teeth.

 "You got that right -- eh -- What do they call you?"

 "Sam Jones."

 "I'm Joe Hancock, Sam." Joe's extended right hand met Sam's coarse hand. For a small, older geezer his grip was firm. "Where do you hail from, Sam?"

 "I comes from a little town in Georgia called Dublin, whar' my paw was a share cropper."

 Dublin wasn't too far away from Joe's hometown. He could relate to this man. Joe's father employed sharecroppers to farm his land, and he often worked, side by side, with these folks. Joe's reflections created a void in their conversation. Sam looked befuddled when Joe asked out of the blue, "So you worked on a farm, Sam?"

 "Yas, Suh, I sho' did, but I'z got 'nuff of farming when I'z young."

 Sam took the words right off the tip of Joe's tongue. "I know where you're coming from, man. I worked a few years on my father's farms, and it's back breaking, sweaty work. Summers in Georgia are hotter than seven hells. Besides, it's demeaning. I hated it with a purple passion."

 Joe turned to make more are you available eyes at the blonde. Stunned, he spotted the incredibly beautiful brunette entering. She proceeded towards the bar. He followed her step by step, ignoring the blonde. He shifted his gaze to the blonde for a moment, in time to see her eyebrows arched in scornful scrutiny of his obvious change of interest.  He tried not to be obvious with his intrigue, but he couldn't take his eyes off this adorable creature.

Is she coming to the bar? What will I say?

Now, he panicked, realizing no pitch was prepared. Joe lit a cigarette. One already burned.

 Joe composed himself and turned back to Sam spellbound watching the cherub creeping their way. Sam offered Joe a friendly wink as if to say look a here! Look a here!  Joe took another gulp of beer, a deep draw, and inhaled deeply.

If she came to the bar, I'll simply let our meeting happen fortuitously. If my charms fail, or she proves indifferent, I still have the blonde to fall back on. The brunette is putting enormous pressure on me by her sudden accessibility.

God! She's here, Joe thought nervously, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. She looked exotic. She glowed with pristine innocence. She sat with a slight tilt to her head. Her legs were crossed intentionally exposing several inches above her left knee. Joe noticed what appeared to be a high school ring on her right hand, and she wore an elegant watch.

Sam turned to the lady and said graciously, "Good afternoon, Miss. What may I'z git fo' you?" This is as gracious as Sam gets. You have to concentrate on Sam's gentle qualities.

She looked for something in her small beaded handbag while wondering what Joe thought.

I know he's thinking about me. I can't walk into a room that women, but especially men, stop and stare. Her thoughts were truthful. She wasn't stuck-up like most beautiful women. Her modesty was an innate quality.

Sam repeated his request politely. She flashed eyes and admitted, "I'm sorry. I was thinking about something far, far away. I'd like a pot of tea, please." Her voice low pitched, and Joe was surprised. He expected the voice of a soprano.

"Yes, miss."

She found a silver cigarettes case, the apparent object of her search, and Joe found the entrée he'd been grasping for. She extracted one of the filter cigarettes and put it between lips delicate as rose petals. He poised his lighter and flicked it to life. He stretched in her direction. "May I light your cigarette?" Joe asked in as gentlemanly manner as he could muster.

 She expected this and concealed her awareness with cool demeanor. She turned her head and twisted her body. Part of her long black hair fell over the left side of her face, giving her that Veronica Lake look that drove men wild. She leaned in his direction, tilted the cigarette, and glared straight into his eyes. In her low sultry voice she purred, "thanks," after the cigarette smoked. She didn't inhale. The way she held the cigarette was devilishly cute. She had that Bette Davis air about her and Bette Davis eyes. Oh, my, those eyes were so beautiful.

"I'm Joe Hancock," he said hastily, not wanting the momentum to slip away.

"I'm Laura Scott."

"Where are you from, Laura?" Why did he ask? He knew the answer, heaven.

Laura turned away because Sam arrived with her tea. He poured from the small, silver teapot, set it down, and moved away. Sam knew Joe pitched his cause, and he didn't want to be a hindrance. He found this affable young man, with a gentle manner, likable, although they only just met. He silently cheered for him.

"I'm from Atlanta." Her accent was very Georgian.

"Is that a high school ring you're wearing?"

She nodded decisively. "The ring's from Northside High."

Joe knew Northside was a big high school on the Northside of Atlanta that fielded a great football team. He buttered her up. "Northside always fields a great football teams. Now I know why. If all the cheerleaders are as cute as you, the players must have been willing to kill for a victory."

She smiled faintly. Of course, he wasn't serious, and she realized he buttered her up. "How'd you know I was a cheerleader?" she asked in a warmer, friendlier tone.

Already she liked him. If she were disposed otherwise, she wouldn't have accepted the light. The trip had been lonely for her. Her instincts told her this guy was a gentleman and he offered no threat. Anyway, she thought, what could happen on a train in broad daylight even if he's a rascal? This rationale made her feel more secure and boosted her confidence.

Well, she wasn't completely wrong. Joe's libido sizzled, but he had never forced himself on the fairer sex. Only her heart was in jeopardy.

She took another puff and blew the smoke in his face. He reciprocated. She sipped tea. He gulped beer. He blew smoke rings her way. She attacked back. Her rings were smaller and one passed through his, which might have been a favorable augury. Perhaps destiny directed their actions and this chance meeting would blossom. Sam stood behind the bar mesmerized.

Joe was engrossed with the smoke ring barrage and her question had been ignored. He paraphrased his response. "How did I know you were a cheerleader? That's easy, the prettiest girls are always chosen to be cheerleaders. At least that's the way it was at my high school." More sweet talk contrived to curry affection, but it was the truth.

Laura had already determined he was a jock. She knew jocks' egos were as large as all outdoors, and not wanting to be outdone she countered, "I bet you dated all of them." Laura's perception was close.

Joe nodded yes. He'd fibbed. He dated a couple of them and never got beyond first base. Of course, his aspirations were always home plate.

 He thought about this lovely creature one stool away knowing she was a fledgling purer than April showers. She was wholesome, unspoiled and just plain darling. Too tender to expect much more than some puppy love chitchat. To contemplate sexual involvement any bolder was unconscionable, and now, he didn't want to bother her pretty head with problems he'd brought upon himself.

They talked for a while. She sipped tea. He gulped beer. They lit one cigarette after another.

Laura was a freshman, premedical student at Tulane University. She wanted to be a Pediatrician. She looked at eight years of difficult studies.

He mentioned he'd been at Georgia Tech studying engineering, but opted for a venture in the air force. He didn't tell her he had failed.

They talked about their families. Her father was a doctor and her mother was a lady of leisure. She was the only child, and Joe wondered how she handled all the attention without becoming spoiled rotten. She liked horses and rode often. She played clarinet in the marching band. They possessed many common traits, and under a different set of circumstances, a different time, a different place, this chance meeting could turn into a beautiful romance.

Joe broke away at one point, glanced back at the blonde, who appeared to be boiling over Laura's intervention, and went to the bathroom. While he washed his hands and combed his hair, he decided to go back and break it off in a friendly way. If necessary, he'd leave the diner and return to his car for a short time, then return to make a play for the blonde.

Visit Walker Joe's Home Page at http://www.ct.net/~walkerj/

Read Ten Chapters of Walker Joe's First Novel, "Hackney McTrite, Private Dick" at http://www.digitalsuccess.com  

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