Sucka Beginning

                When the sign for Spoons—via Military Avenue—came into view, Parker Brooks felt a tickle of excitement creep into his belly.  He hadn’t been back to Spoons in almost two decades, and he supposed it had probably changed as much as he had; though for better or worse he wasn’t sure of yet, but he was pretty sure it would be for the worse.  How many towns became better with time?
         He pushed that thought out of his mind.  There was no need to ruin such a fine afternoon with negative thinking.  The sky was clear, save for a few cumulus clouds here and there.  The sun was shining and warm, the temperature was in the mid seventies.  It was April 2, 2009, and spring seemed to be here to stay, finally, though you never can tell in Nebraska; a state where the weather can take a turn for the worse on a day’s notice.
         He signaled his intention for a left turn and pulled into the appropriate lane.  The Oldsmobile shuddered to a stop while waiting for traffic to clear.  The engine took on a chugging, coughing rhythm and Parker feared that the Cutlass would give out then and there, leaving him stranded in the left turn lane of Highway 275, his destination just beyond his grasp.
         It did not.  After the traffic cleared Parker put his foot on the gas and the beast roared back into its own brand of stuttering rhythm and he was winding his way down the first curves of Military Street.
         No, not street, he thought, avenue.  Its avenue now, or it always was and I was wrong as a kid. 
         He was already seeing changes in the town.  On his right was a church that he didn’t recognize, which the sign in front declared as St. Patrick’s Catholic Church.  Up the road a piece, on his left—or to the south if you wanted to get technical—was a middle school that looked like it must have been built within the last five years. 
         “Why would they build a school on the outskirts of town?”  He wondered aloud, but did not ponder the question too deeply. 
         As the road straightened a tall white privacy fence appeared on the right hand side of the road, while to his left was a cornfield and a newly laid sidewalk that led to the school.  When he reached the point where Military Street—avenue—and Luther Road intersect, he stopped because the red and white sign told him to. 
         The Cutlass—which he liked to think of not as old, but wise and learned—coughed, gagged and then choked to death.  His jaw dropped, but in the back part of his mind it seemed somehow right that the car would die like—
         “No…no.  It doesn’t seem right.  I never said that.”  He told himself. 
         “I wasn’t talking to myself pal.”  He said to himself, again.
         “Listen…guy,” his patience was wearing thin.  “I’m not crazy and I don’t just sit in cars talking to myself.  I’m talking to you.”
         Parker didn’t seem to know who he was talking to.
         “Guy…you’re gettin’ on my last—“
         The driver of a red Dodge pickup with a deer guard on the front lost his patience and laid down on the horn, flipping Parker the bird and then throwing up his hands.
         “Don’t you ignore me you son of a—“
         The Dodge then backed up and squealed out of there, realizing that Parker was in the middle of a mental brea—
         “Listen, you…you…you mother.  I’m talking to you here.  The least you could do is acknowledge my existence.”
         Listen Parker, you’re being really unprofessional right now.  Could we just get on with the scene?
         “No.  I’m tired of this!  Why do I have to have a piece of (explicit) car anyway?  Why can’t I have something nice, like that guy,” he motioned at the Dodge that was nearly out of sight.  “Why does that guy get a nice truck and I’m stuck with this (explicit) piece of (explicit)?  He’s not even a main Character, and he’s an (explicit) hole to boot.”
         That’s just the way it is Parker.  I’m sorry.  You’re a working class guy.
         “Well I don’t want to be working class!  Can’t I be like a businessman or have inherited money from my family?  Something!  Oh better yet, make me a writer!  Yeah, I always wanted to be a writer.”
         Parker you don’t know what you want, you’re my character, you’ll—
         “You’re character?  Sounds like you’re a pretty possessive kinda guy.”
         Listen…Parker…we’re going to go on with the scene now, ok?
         Parker crossed his arms around his chest, scoffed and said.  “No.  I’m not even getting paid for this (explicit)!  I refuse to work like this.  I’ll be in my trailer.”
         You don’t have a trailer Parker.  I didn’t write you a trailer.
         “Then I’ll be at The Nine-Tower.”
         The Nine-tower?  What’s the Nine-Tower?
         Parker laughed.  “Nothing.  Just an inside joke between me and one of my buddies.”
         You don’t have any buddies Parker I didn’t—
         “Good Lord!  You’re not a very nice guy.  Why don’t you just call me an ugly son of a (explicit) while you’re at it!  I feel sorry for your wife.”
         I’m not married Parker.
         “Well with an attitude like that it’s easy to see why.”
         *sighs*  Ok.  How about this:  I’ll make the cutlass start up again, and you can be a former author who has written anything for a while and maybe, just maybe, you’ll start writing again.
         “Hmm,” Parker looked thoughtful, then smiled.  “Alright, it’s a compromise.”
         Miraculously the Cutlass roared back into life and Parker crossed the intersection without so much as a stutter—
         “Thanks man.  I really didn’t want to walk.”
         —and he was on the move again.