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First Edition Design Publishing - Woodburn Barney J.

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85 pages

English

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Extrait

Description

A dynamic and ambitious mayor gathers his closest advisors for a fishing trip at the Outer Banks. There they will plan his campaign for governor. Mayor Brandsgard is smart and charming, a homegrown boy from Davenport, Iowa who appears destined for greatness. Joining him are his privileged wife, his attorney, the shrewd political pro who serves as his chief of staff, his brilliant policy wonk and Cutter, his quixotic wordsmith and confidante. They bring with them all the skills and audacity needed to take their mayor to the statehouse...and beyond. They also bring individual baggage--baggage which will impact their collective future. Especially Cutter's. In his captivating debut work, J. Woodburn Barney unites his readers with the human experience--with their own experience--by drawing attention to the percussion of everyday life. Written by someone who has lived a lifetime observing, its pages are filled with revealing internal dialogue, vulnerable human connections and the type of twists life throws at you. With his skilled character development and authentic depiction of human interaction, he creates a familiar and fascinating illustration of the impact that life can have on life. Ultimately, Barney let this story "be whatever it wanted to be."

Sujets

Political

Politics

Informations

Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	20 mai 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781622879182
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0360€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

CUTTER
by
J. Woodburn Barney
Cutter
Copyright ©2015 J. Woodburn Barney

ISBN 978-1622-879-18-2 EBOOK

May 2015

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .

Cover illustration by Vicki Moon Spiegel

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. It has been said, however, that all fiction is autobiographical in that a person can only write what he knows. What is good and strong in these characters has come from the many good and strong people I have had the privilege to know, especially my children (genetic and acquired), my family and my friends. The rest, well, that comes from my imagination.
for Deborah
“Many men go fishing all of their lives
without knowing that it is not fish they are after.”

Henry David Thoreau
“Ain’t it hard when you discover that
He really wasn’t where it’s at
After he took from you everything he could steal.”

Bob Dylan
“Like a Rolling Stone”
CUTTER
CHAPTER ONE

He was having the dream again. The hard plastic chair. The faded blue wall. The huge clock with the irritating click, click, click of the second hand. The fear and anger, though he couldn’t quite identify the source. Nobody to ask.
Now a new sound coming from the clock. A buzzing. But that doesn’t fit the dream.
Shit. Alarm. Cell phone.
He fumbled the phone off the nightstand and onto the floor. Retrieved it. Tapped the screen until he managed to hit the snooze.
Aaaahhh.
Something’s not right. Wait. On vacation. At the Outer Banks. Why was the fucking alarm going off? Mistake.
Aaahhhh.
Shit. Gotta be at Oden’s Dock at 7:00 am. Fucking Clint and his rah-rah, team-building, fucking fishing trip. What a crock.
Cutter found the lamp switch, turned it on and his eyes adjusted to the bright whites and yellows of the condo room.
And he rolled out of bed. Literally.
The room was standard Hatteras Island fare. Not old Hatteras. That would have been concrete block walls, painted sea mist green. Window air conditioner. Black mold in the bathroom. Two year old fish scales on the floor under the bed. Odors that told stories of the guys who drank and smoked and played poker and lied to each other about the fish they didn’t catch that day. No, this was the modern Outer Banks. Bright colors and cheap prints of the Hatteras Lighthouse and seagulls. A big plastic fish on the wall over the couch. And lamps filled with seashells.
Two bedrooms. Though Cutter was alone. Wasn’t anything smaller available. As he did every morning, he touched his toes, just to make sure everything was still working, scratched his balls through his boxers and shuffled, first to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen to make coffee.
Let’s see. Thirty minutes to get there. Stop at the Orange Blossom for one of those apple ugly thingies, ten minutes. Forty-five minutes. Almost time to rock and roll.
Cutter was early thirties, mostly nondescript. In so many ways. Average height, average weight, average looks. The only noticeable features were the dorky, black-rimmed glasses he always wore and the unruly shock of blond hair. It was thick and curly, not in the wavy way, but in the frizzy Brillo-pad way. Through his teen years he fought it on a daily basis, trying to tame it into one of the fashionable looks, but by college he had surrendered, thrown in the towel, said “Fuck it” and let it be whatever it wanted to be.
Today it wanted to be multi-tufted, its traditional salt-air, slept-in look. But nothing his favorite Red Sox ball cap wouldn’t cover.
So while the coffee maker hissed its way through its assigned duty, Cutter brushed his teeth, found a pair of not-too-dirty khaki shorts, a clean tee shirt (the black River Roots one) and his blue chambray shirt and got dressed. And Mr. Coffee finished at exactly the right minute.
Five minutes to drink a cup and…
Ah, shit. Dammit. This Clintfest is overnight. Pack. Get the backpack—trunks, jeans, sweatshirt. Dammit. Toothbrush.
Cutter stuffed his gear into the backpack, closed the sliding glass door to the balcony. Balcony, it was to laugh—ten square feet enclosed by a rusty railing. At the door he went through his departure ritual, touching each item as he repeated the litany, “Watch. Wallet. Keys. Spectacles. Testicles. Cell phone.”
Good to go.
Out the door. Into the Wrangler.
He’d had the Jeep about four years. Always wanted one. Got it as a present to himself after the, what would you call it, the lost time. He still wouldn’t admit that his brother was right about the car. Jim had told him he wouldn’t like it. Bad gas mileage. Terrible seats. Kill your back.
After eighteen hours on the road to get here, his back had been on fire. And his wallet half empty. Still, this place was what the car was built for—four-wheeling on the beach with the top off. Nobody wanted to ride with him back home, but here, on the beach, here all of them wanted a turn behind the wheel.
Out Antilles Road and onto Highway 12, coffee in hand. He wasn’t excited about being out with those people during his vacation. But the sun was up, Buffett and Dylan were on the player and he was going deep sea fishing. So it wasn’t all that bad.
Past Canadian Hole, into Buxton. Stop for the fritter on steroids—damn tough to eat when a guy has to drink hot coffee and use a stick shift all at once.
Still on time. More traffic than he expected. Must be the Hatteras version of rush hour. All rusted out cars and beat up pickups. Brigand Bay on the right and something on the road. What?
Shit. It’s a rooster, strolling slowly across Highway 12.
Why did the chicken cross the road? To show his friends he had guts.
Slow down and let the chicken finish his walk. Apparently he was on his way to work at the Frisco Mini Golf across the road. Just like the ten foot tall fiberglass rooster at the putt-putt at Fort Myers Beach.
He wondered where that photograph was. She had insisted that he pose with that huge plastic chicken. One of his running stories with her was how, when he was growing up with his seven brothers and sisters, the family raised most of its own food, including chickens. And that because they were so poor, the only pet he ever had was a chicken. Named Fred. Who, in late summer, became a family dinner. And how he never wanted another pet. Ever.
She laughed every time he told it. He liked that about her. She had had the photograph enlarged and framed as a gift for him.
He met her—Amanda—when he was hired to do some writing for the private school where she taught science to elementary age students.
Cutter had been brought in to do a professional standards guide for St. Mary of the Light Catholic School for Girls, or as he preferred, St. Mary of the Tight Ass. He had been hired, on recommendation of the Bishop, based on his time working in the purgatory of Human Resources for the Diocese where his parents were regular contributors. Mom and Dad thought that maybe it would be a good thing for him to ‘give back’ to the Church, what with it having provided him with the good education that earned him a scholarship to Northwestern. He thought it would be a good idea to get his parents off his back. Well, that, and it was nigh impossible to get a job with a degree in English.
So he was hired. The job, as it turned out, was to take all the ‘do’s’ and ‘don’t’s’ the school administration (and, he assumed, all the Catholic hierarchy right up to the Pope) insisted on for the staff and translate it into words and phrases that, if read by the outside world—the internet—wouldn’t appear to be the anachronistic view of the world that it really was. Oh, and incidentally, to get staff buy-in to the document. Easy.
His boss, the principal of St. Mary of the Tight Ass, was one Dr. Edward T. Fenton, PhEd. Referred to by the staff as “That fucking Fenton,” which Cutter was shocked to discover was not an homage to John Sanford. Dr. Fenton, as he insisted on being called, even by his closest colleagues, was a study in stereotypes—had the stereotype been for a principal from the 1950s—from the flat top haircut with the white sidewalls to his gray suit and white starched shirt to his black wingtip shoes, spit-shined.
Cutter’s first day on the job began with a meeting to introduce him to the staff.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” started Dr. Fenton, “may I remind you that when we say we begin work at 7:00 a.m. it does NOT mean we arrive at 7:00, take off our coats, get our coffee, chat with our coworkers about last night’s TV shows and then begin working. It means we are at our desks commencing work no later than 7:00” eliciting substantial eye rolling from the staff and a barely concealed gag reflex from Cutter.
Fenton continued, “Today we begin work on the updates to our Professional Standards Handbook. This does NOT mean we will be lowering our standards. Is that understood? And His Eminence has decided we could use the assistance of…”
He interrupted himself. “Well, Miss Reagan, I’m so glad you could join us this morning. Although I must point out that you are ten minutes tardy.
“I am so sorry, Dr. Fenton. I stopped at the chapel because I felt I needed to pray a rosary.” Amanda blushed slightly. More staff