Once again, I have gotten this idea from my cousin, and I am running with it! She said that it is pretty standard for writers to release parts of their work on their blog- so here is my first go at it. I will try and leave it up for awhile, just to see if anyone decides to actually visit and comment on it.
I am working on a novel that I may call Chasing Manson. It is based on a very sloppy screenplay that I wrote some years ago. It is about a main character, Blue, who is fresh out of high school (I am hoping to market this as YA) and he and his friends go on a road trip to California from West Virginia in order to meet Charles Manson in 1972. It combines my love for YA, music, history, and thriller/suspense novels. I am hoping that everyone will get enticed from this little snippet and decide to come back for more :))
Chapter Three-We Gotta Get Out of This Place
The officer didn’t know this of course, but he would become completely fascinated with me. At that particular moment, when we first met, he was just annoyed. He rolled his eyes, fiddled with the low-hung belt around his waist, and sucked his teeth. Occasionally, he used his pen and pad to jot down a note or two.
“What did they look like?”
I looked up at him. We were in the John’s office. I sat in one of the folding chairs across from John’s throne and Jinks sat cross-legged on the floor next to me. The officer rested his butt on the edge the desk.
“They were wearing ski masks. I don’t know what they looked like.”
He tapped his pen on the pad in a rhythmic tone that reminded me of The Beach Boys’ “Komoko”. I can’t stand The Beach Boys so I couldn’t stop myself from letting out a small huff.
“No, sir. They were wearing ski masks.”
“They sound like you or me.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Did they sound like you, or did they sound like me?" He asked this with an absolute straight face. I didn’t really understand the question. To me, we both sounded the same. White males from West Virginia don’t really have any distinctions in their voices.
“What I mean is they sound like they are from West Virginia, not England or anything like that.”
“Are you sure?” The way he watched me, I knew his question was serious. His burnt brown mustache twitched as he spoke. His hair was the same color and almost as coarse. It bothered me.
“This is John Lennon’s number one fan. He would know an English accent.” Jinks responded as he tapped my leg. He smiled and pushed his hair behind his ear, he was proud of himself- like he was a character witness for me.
The officer was not amused.
“No, sir,” I responded. This time, I kept the huffs to myself. I figured that would make the lame ass interrogation go by a lot quicker if I was polite and cooperated.
“Please, call me Officer Stanton, or better yet- call me David.” David stood and took a card out of his back pocket. He would tell me later it was because he knew how to play the game. He knew what kids like us wanted, if we had to refer to him as Officer Stanton, we would never feel comfortable enough to tell him anything.
“Why don’t you give me a call if you can remember anything else?” He extended the card to me and then put his pad away in his breast pocket.
I took the card and read the bold name in cursive. He looked like he was a David. Davids seem like assholes, like arrogant, annoying, cops.