Amber by Dan-Dwayne Spencer (e book reader .TXT) 📕

“I guess it takes practice.” I looked at the cigarette and tried again, and again I exhaled in a fit of coughing. “Maybe I’ll start tomorrow.” With my middle finger, I flipped what was left of it out the window. “Jimmy, tell me, do you have any friends? Other than Sarah, I mean.”

He got a sour look on his face. “Who needs friends? They always stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Like I said, we all have things we don’t want anyone to know about,” I agreed.

He nodded and looked back at Roger brooding in the backseat. “No joke, what’s his story? Why’s he so all-fired hot to get away from his parents?”

I shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I have a hard enough time with my own crap.”

Roger said, “You can’t even talk to me directly. You’re just like my folks.” Usually, Roger let everything he was thinking fall out of his mouth. But this time, he bit his lip and stewed over what to say. The few words he spoke were golden, “It’s worse being ignored than mistreated. At least your parents know you’re there. The only one who sees me for who I am is Arland.”

In all the years I knew Roger, I never learned more about how he felt than I did there in Jimmy’s car. He usually covered up his true feelings with sarcasm and quips—most of which were ignored by the cool crowd. I’m not sure I’d call him invisible, maybe overlooked would better describe him.

Over the next couple of hours we talked, I mean really talked. I found myself telling Jimmy all about my psychotic mother and more. He drove listening, nodding, grinning back at Roger, and giving me the occasional smiling glance. Then he would share something about his life and what it was like to live with a drunkard for a father. His mother had left with another man when he was six-years-old, or so his father told him. He hadn’t heard from her, not once.

It seemed supernaturally strange how I was bonding with the school bully. We had a connection even Roger and I didn’t share. We understood what it was like to live with parents who hurt us. I can’t say I completely understood his situation because my mom didn’t physically hit me like she did my dad, but she wounded me with words and actions. I carried the emotional scars to prove it.

As for Roger, I don’t know if I believe being ignored is worse. It was true, his parents rarely had any time for him. The Reynolds were all about Michael. I can just hear them saying, Michael got this award, Michael never causes trouble, and Michael is so good at everything. It was kinda sickening. I glanced in the back seat. Eyes closed, he lay there, either sleeping or pretending. Probably his way of ignoring us for a while.

In Amarillo, we turned onto Route 66 toward Oklahoma City, stopping at a Texaco station once for a badly needed break and a fill-up. After that, Jimmy and I continued to talk for another couple of hours. When the conversation died down, as it will do when two people no longer know what to say to each other, Jimmy reached over and turned on the radio. At first, it crackled with static until he dialed in a station.

The announcer was giving the news headlines for the day: “…earlier this week, the bodies of seven people were found at the swank Beverly Hills mansion of famous stylist Jay Sebring. One of the deceased was identified as actress Sharon Tate. The massacre has been attributed to a madman by the name of Charles Manson, who along with his cult of followers invaded the Sebring residence and—”

Jimmy turned off the radio. “I’m in no mood for bad news. This weekend is going to be about finding peace, rock music, and new friends.

“Too bad about Sharon Tate, though.” I said. “She was a hot chick.”

Jimmy only nodded his reply.

With the sound of the wind whipping past my ears, I found it easy to relax, lean back in my chair, and enjoy the rumble of the Mustang’s high-powered V-8 engine.

When we reached Oklahoma City, the blazing hot August sun hung slightly westward of high-center. It was 1:30 pm and time for more gas. Jimmy spotted a Love’s Travel Stop, country store and filling station combination.

Getting out of the car was excruciating. It felt like my legs had forgotten how to walk. I stretched and reached for my toes. Even Jimmy stood twisting his torso, hoping to pop his back. Roger shook one leg, then the other, and complained about the pain. After re-awaking our limbs, we casually walked into the convenience store. Only to be stopped by the attendant’s raucous yell, “Hey, dipshit. Can’t you read?”

“What?” Startled, I stepped back. There on the door hung a sign: No shirt, no shoes, no service.

I looked up at Jimmy and said, “I’ll go back to the car and wait for you guys. I don’t have one.”

Jimmy went to the trunk of his car and pulled a wrinkled, western shirt with pearl snaps for buttons from a gym bag. “Here, put this on. It doesn’t smell the best in the world, but it’s a shirt.”

He was right. It smelled like dirty socks, and of course, it swallowed me. Jimmy must have worn an extra-large, and my swimmer’s shoulders did well to fill out a medium. “Thanks, Jimmy,” was all I could come up with. I left the front unsnapped and let the breeze blow it like a cape with sleeves.

I strutted into the store with the stench of unwashed gym clothes hovering around me like an unseen fog. The attendant looked up and complained, “Your chest is still showing—”