A NaNoWriMo excerpt

Here's a sample from my NaNoWriMo work in progress. Hope you enjoy it.

Spring, 1959

Jake Thompson stood on the edge of the highway in a cheap suit with fifty dollars in his pocket, both a parting gift from the Arkansas Department of Correction. Along with a Zippo lighter, they were all his worldly possessions. But, at least he was free now – broke, homeless but free.

The bus driver dropped him off at dusty crossroads on U.S. 49 across from a country store. Dust and exhaust fumes settled on the cheap suit as the Greyhound pulled away. Cotton fields stretched as far as Jake could see in any direction  If she still was alive, Jake’s mother lived in a shotgun house in a cotton field about five miles down the dirt road. But, he wasn’t going down that road. He asked her to not visit him after the first year in prison, then told her to stop writing him after the second.

The lanky Jake strolled over across the pavement to the store. Two gas pumps stood in front of the wooden building, an Esso sign squeaked in the light summer breeze. A black Ford sat inside a garage building next to the store. Jake paused to look it over, thinking how much cars had changed during the last twenty years.

He walked into the shade of the store’s awning, pulled open the screen door that needed oiling and stepped inside. An old man sat in rocking chair at the back of the store next to a cold stove. Jake avoided eye contact, but with years of checking out people from the corner of his eye he quickly decided the old man could be a tough bird. He looked as if he’d given people more crap than he took.

Jake nodded at the old man, then opened the top of the soda box and pulled an RC Cola from the cold water. He popped off the cap on the opener and turned up the bottle, letting the chilled soda run down his throat. Lord, it had been years since Jake had an ice-cold soda. There weren’t too many treats at Cummins. After he’d downed about half the RC, Jake knew what he wanted. He went over to the counter, took the red lid off a big glass jar and reached in to get a bag of Tom’s Peanuts. Jake ripped the bag open and poured the nuts down the neck of the RC. Sweet and salty blended as Jake took a swig and crunched the peanuts.

From the corner of his eye, Jake saw the old man glaring at him. “You gonna pay for that?” he asked.

Jake took another mouthful of cola and peanuts before answering. “In a minute,” he said.

He turned down between the shelves and walked across the floor, checking out what was there. Canned goods, bread, crackers, then at the end of the aisle Jake saw what he needed and smiled. The old man had left the chair and now was standing behind the counter. He didn’t look happy. Jake didn’t care.

“You need help with something?” asked the old man.

“Nope, got just what I need,” said Jake. “Is that Ford out there yours? Sure is a nice lookin’ car.”

“Not mine. My son’s been working on it for some guy,” said the old man.

“He around?” asked Jake.

“Had to go into town.”

“He get it fixed?”

“Of course he did! My son’s a damned good mechanic. Learned it in the army.”

“Glad to hear that. Nice to have a skill.”

Jake stopped in front of the counter and smiled at the old man. In a quick move, he sprayed charcoal lighter into the old man’s face and down his shirt then flicked the Zippo to life.

“What the hell ...” the old man started to say, wiping his stinging eyes, then noticing the Zippo’s flame before his face.

“Now, if you don’t want to go up like a brush pile, don’t do anything stupid,” said Jake.

“You wouldn’t dare,” said the old man, starting to reach under the counter

Jake sprayed him in the face again and leaned closer with the lighter. The old man sputtered. “Don’t bet on it,” he said.

“Now just do what I tell you and nobody gets hurt,” said Jake. “You got a gun under the counter?”

The old man nodded, his eyes wide and wild glaring at Jake.

“Then slide it over to me real carefully, butt first.”

Reaching under the counter, the old man brought up a Smith & Wesson .38. He set it on the counter and pushed it, grip first, toward Jake, who grabbed it and stuck the barrel in the old man’s face. He flipped the Zippo closed.

“Okay, now empty the cash register,” said Jake.

“Ain’t much here,” said the old man, trying to wipe the lighter fuel off his face with his shirt sleeve.

“It’s more than I got. Now just get it out and stuff it in one of those paper sacks.”

The old man, grumbling under his breath, complied and threw the brown sack on the counter.

“You got the keys to that Ford?”

“They’re probably in it.”

“Okay.”

Keeping the .38 trained on the old man, Jake motioned him to move toward the back of the store to a storage room. He shoved him inside. “I ain’t got a thing against you, just needed some help getting on down the road,” said Jake, and he clubbed him on the head with the gun butt.

The old man fell to the floor, stunned but not entirely out. “Just stay down there for now, and you won’t get hurt.”

The old man started to push himself up, and Jake kicked him. He stayed still on the floor then. Jake reached down, touching the old man’s neck to feel for a pulse. He still had one.

Jake backed out of the storage room and pulled the door close. Heading toward the front door, he grabbed the paper sack of money then exited the store. He walked quickly to the garage and tossed the sack through the open passenger window of the Ford. Jake saw the keys in the ignition, and smiled as he slid behind the wheel.

The V-8 roared to life, along with the radio. “Rebel Rouser” blared from the speaker. Jake grinned, saw the car had a full tank of gas, and slipped it into gear, scattering dust and gravel as he fishtailed out of the drive to the guitar twangs of Duane Eddy.

Heading north on 49 through the cotton fields toward Memphis, Jake felt better. Now his worldly belongings included a .38, a sack of money, and a stolen Ford.

Not bad for his first day out of prison.