From a completed short story

This is rather long for one of my stories.  Runs over 4500 words, 20 some pages double spaced.  One of my few first person stories.  I have submitted a half dozen times, rejected, then rewrote.  I find that my rewrites are becoming really minor corrections.  Which I hope means, I am satisfied with it, which I believe I am.  I think it will find a market sometime, it’s just located that right market.  Anyway, a short passage:

 

Chet tried to get cute about the car once.  I was cleaning it out and working on the back seat.  They came home from some Country Club thing. 

“See any girl action in that back seat Ty?” 

 

“Why girls?”  I countered and kept cleaning.

 

“Huh?”  Chet said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

I knew what would get him so I straightened up, turned around, had to bend down to stubby Chet,  and looked him in the eye.  “Why does it have to be girls?  What’s wrong with boy action in the back seat?”  I could see Barbara giving me a look.

 

“Hold on a minute!”  Chet fumbles around, getting all red.  “Are you saying…?”

 

“Come on Chet, he’s putting you on.  Trying to get Mommy’s attention.”  Barbara finally butts in.

 

I’m quick on the comeback.  “If I thought it would work, I’d do it for real.” 

 

She lights a cig and raises an eyebrow. “Go for it, maybe it will.”

 

Chet gives this nervous laugh and kind of shrugs it off.  “Course he’s joking.”  He has to reach up a long way and tries to drape an arm around my shoulders.  Now I ain’t big on that sort of thing, I knock his arm off me and pull away.  “Who do you think you are?”

 

Then, I ain’t kidding, he marches right up in my face, all red.  As much up in my face as he can manage anyway.  I’m a head taller. “I’m the one who paid for the damn thing you little snot.”  Spray in my face.  Disgusting.

 

 “Mind your own business and keep your perverted hands off me.” 

 

Mom pulls him aside.  “Knock it off Chet.”  She says.

 

“He can’t say that to me.”  Chet insists.

 

“He can.”  She tells him, He sputters and stomps away.

 

She turns back to me.  “I’m not playing referee and that’s final.”

 

“Tell him, Barbara.”  I counter.  Hadn’t called her Mom for years.  “Anyway, what do you play?  You haven’t played Mom since I can remember.”  Another good one.

 

Bounces off her like always.  “I will tell him.  And now I’m telling you.” 

 

“Fine.”  I turn to the car and start working again. 

 

“Use protection with your boys.”  She says, her heels click evenly on the stupidly expensive cobblestone drive.  I hate her sometimes.

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