Novel Podcast: A War Between States Compilation 2
The last time I did this, a couple of months ago, it was because I felt like there was simply too much of a lag between podcast posts, and so I made a compilation to serve as filler. Turns out, with the amount of content currently floating around on this site o’ mine, that a place which serves as a depot for all my currently posted Novel Podcasts was actually a PRACTICAL idea. Therefore, I’ve decided to do exactly that every 5 chapters or so from now on - that is, post a compilation of all the podcasts.
So here you go. For your convenience, and for all the newcomers to my site and to this podcast, here are direct links to each of the chapters, in order. So now you can just click and go, and maybe give a listen to the whole thing….
- Chapter 1, Part 1
- Chapter 1, Part 2
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3, Part 1
- Chapter 3, Part 2
- Chapter 4, Part 1
- Chapter 4, Part 2
- Chapter 5
- Interlude 1
- Chapter 6, Part 1
- Chapter 6, Part 2
- Chapter 7, Part 1
- Chapter 7, Part 2
- Chapter 8, Part 1
- Chapter 8, Part 2
- Chapter 9, Part 1
- Chapter 9, Part 2
- Chapter 10, Part 1
- Chapter 10, Part 2
- Interlude 2
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part 19
Years have passed since I first wrote this chapter, and as I was reading over it in preparation of recording it for this podcast, I noticed Raymond Bernardt’s long speech about the Reverend Fowler, which you’ll see below. Toot, toot, toot my own horn, but I think his speech is one of the most vibrantly authorative things I’ve ever written. He’s right, you know….
Also, Oz Pizza really does exist, and it proved perfect as a tie-in to all my Wizard of Oz allusions here. They make really excellent pizza, too - just FYI. No wizards involved.
A War Between States Part 19:
Chapter 10, Part Two: Campaign: Nate
August 20, 2003
Nate couldn’t speak immediately, only blink, open-mouthed, as the man made his little speech. And as Raymond Bernhardt talked, Nate had the impression that the man was singing and dancing a happy jig at the same time — a kind of musical number like in the elaborate Gene Kelly movies that sometimes aired on Turner.
“You had a run-in with a bastard of a man,” Bernhardt continued, “whose been a thorn in my side for going on twenty years. The Reverend Kenneth Fowler is and has been the pastor of the church where my family — and me by default — chose to attend. I go there now. My daddy and my mama went there before they passed. I go there now. And if I had children — which I most likely won’t — they would go there until they were old enough to choose otherwise. Evangeline Baptist is a good place, full of kind people. And most times, Fowler is a decent man. But over the years, he and I have come to… disapprove of each other. I don’t like his politics — don’t like the fact that he has more than a passing interest in politics at all. There’s a reason God gave the kingship of Israel to Judah and the priesthood to the tribe of Levi, and a reason our founding fathers made so much of the separation of church and state. The pulpit ain’t the place to bash Democrats from, and the church’s influence should not be used to interfere with the affairs of men like you. Fowler had no right to do what he did to you. No right at all.”
Nate blinked again. He thought he saw an after-image surrounding the man’s penny-loafered feet — like sparkles kicking up from dancing feet. Like the glint of glitter on Dorothy’s red shoes.
“Did you come here by coincidence and decide to talk to me on the spur of the moment?” Nate asked. “Or were you on your way to see me all along?”
“The latter.” Bernhardt cracked a conspiratorial smile. “Nate, I know your plight. In fact, most of the folks I hang around with in East Point and Midtown know your plight. And so I’ve come to introduce myself and make you an offer.”
“Come again?”
Bernhardt laughed again, a giddy, resounding chuckle that made Nate grin despite himself.
“C’mon, Nathan Wells. Let’s step into Oz Pizza and I’ll buy you a soda — or a beer if you like. Even a slice. You got time on your hands, I know. And I know you’re just dyin’ to hear what I’ve got to say.”
“You’ve said quite a lot already,” Nate replied.
Bernhardt only chuckled softly and stepped past Nate on his way to Oz. Nate followed, looking down at the sidewalk as he went, searching for yellow bricks.
A song by The Clash was playing inside the pizzeria. Pieces of art hung on the walls, along with a bulletin board full of real estate posts and business cards. The room smelled deliciously of garlic and baking bread.
Raymond Bernhardt sidled up to the counter and ordered a glass of wine. Nate decided what the hell and ordered a beer. When he did, Bernhardt nodded approvingly. They sat at a table in a relatively quiet side room and sipped their drinks for a couple of minutes in silence.
Finally, Nate spoke. “You said you had an offer.”
Bernhardt put his glass of red wine down and leaned back in his plastic chair. “I told you that Fowler doesn’t approve of me,” he said. “You wanna know why?”
“I’m dying to.”
“Because I am two things which Fowler can’t abide, both of which start with the letters G and A.”
Nate took a sip of his beer to mask whatever look was on his face. He didn’t want to offend the man if his guess was wrong as to what one of those things was.
“I’m a professional gambler,” Bernhardt said — that was the one Nate probably couldn’t have guessed. “And I’m gay.”
Yep, Nate thought. Would have got that one right.
“Unfortunately for Fowler,” Bernhardt continued, “I’m also outspokenly Christian. I just don’t think some of the things Fowler preaches are so absolute.” He took a sip of wine as if to emphasize his point. “And I’m rich. The first creates countless compromises for me to deal with. The latter presents a few for Fowler. You see, he likes my tithes to his church.” Bernhardt laughed again, and Nate couldn’t help but join him. It was a sublime bit of irony, something Nate would have loved to written a story about — if he ever got the chance again.
“Now I can’t really influence Fowler,” Bernhardt said. Then he drained his glass and leaned forward, folding his hands together — Nate noticed the man had a ring on nearly every finger. “As generous as I am to his church, I am an abomination…. But I can undo what he’s done to you. And it would give me great pleasure to.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Bernhardt?”
“Oh, come now. Ray. You must call me Ray.”
“Okay, Ray. What do you mean?”
“How much money would it take to get you out of the financial straits you’re in?”
“Well,” Nate said, thinking hard, his excitement building, “I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“That’s fine,” Bernhardt said, standing. “Think about it while I fetch myself another glass of the vino.”
After he left, Nate sat and thought about the little man’s implied offer. He stared into his beer and did a quick tally so that he could at least give Bernhardt an estimate. Did the man really mean to imply that he would spot Nate — a man he didn’t even know, regardless of his “education” — cash to get out of debt? What was the catch? Was Bernhardt the Wizard at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, or was he just a Munchkin? He kind of looked like a Munchkin. Or was he worse than a Munchkin — was he a Rumpelstiltskin type, and this some sort of Faustian plot?
Suddenly Bernhardt was sitting down in front of him, swirling wine in a glass. “Well?” the little man asked.
Nate raised his eyes from his beer. “Thirty grand,” he said.
Bernhardt’s grin nearly split his face in two. “Is that all?” he said. “Thirty large will get the Atlanta Scribe afloat again? All the way?”
“Well, that’s just the debt. If we reopened, we’d immediately start plunging into the red again, since we’ve got holes in our advertising revenue, thanks to Reverend Fowler.”
“Bah,” Bernhardt said and waved one bejeweled hand at Nate dismissively. “You can use the extra space for additional editorial.” Nate noticed that the man’s second glass of wine had just about disappeared. “Nathan Wells, I would like to offer you a loan in the amount of SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND dollars, to pay your debt and keep you operating until the Fowler tempest blows over.”
“I — I could never pay that back,” Nate stammered.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll put no time limit on it, and I won’t charge any interest. Bible says not to charge your brother interest.”
“But —”
“We’ll call it a sponsorship.”
“But… why?”
Bernhardt finished his wine again and raised the empty glass in the gesture of a toast. “The Atlanta Scribe was a fair voice in an unfair world. It gave equitable coverage to the gay community, the Christian community, the you-name-it community. Few publications can claim that level of non-bias. It would a shame to see it go. But besides that, I told you, Nate Wells: it would give me great pleasure to be a thorn in Fowler’s side. And, like I said, I am a gambler.”
The Cast
- Nate Wells - Jay ‘Hot Thang’ Elgin
- Raymond Bernhardt - Jeff Jarvis, Sorceror’s Apprentice
- Narrator - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part 18
It’s been since before the holidays that I posted a podcast of the novel I’m podcasting. But don’t worry - I haven’t forgotten it, just neglected it! Still, here’s a new installation, which will be followed later this week by another installation. In this one, we return to Nate Wells, now after the closing of his magazine. Here Nate meets a mysterious stranger, and hopefully you’ll soon be wondering the same thing Nate is….
A War Between States Part 18:
Chapter 10, Part One: Campaign: Nate
August 20, 2003
Deanna was the last one to leave. She walked across the tiled floors of the office with a cardboard box cradled in her arms. From its top protruded the peak of the goofy alarm clock/art piece she’d bought at the Lakewood Antique show — the goofy alarm clock/art piece her girlfriend wouldn’t let her keep in their apartment. It looked like a flamingo, with long yellow legs holding up a blue cuckoo clock house from which the flamingo’s elongated pink neck thrust, and from which an orange pendulum hung like a silly neck tie.
The peak of the blue house caught Nate’s eye as Deanna bustled by. She’d already said good-bye, so she didn’t say anything else to him as she left, only stared straight ahead, jaw clenched and blue eyes shiny with tears. Nate didn’t blame her — they’d both nearly burst into crying when they’d met in his office three hours ago to exchange future contact information and say farewell. Deanna wanted to hang around and help Nate finalize his plans for the business, but the bankruptcy lawyers and accountants insisted that they needed no help.
Nate watched her open the front door with extended fingers, watched her thrust her foot in to open it further, and watched her bump through the opening with her hips. Sunshine outlined her briefly and then she was gone. The door closed behind her.
Nate sat at a desk in the rear of the main office and gazed out across the room. He realized that, without its tell-tale decorations and desktop knick-knacks, he couldn’t remember whose desk this had been. All of the desks were void of computers. Nate had already purged their memories, downloaded all the stored articles and copies of the Scribe to CD. He’d already sold them all to subsidize the final paychecks for his former employees — a move the bankruptcy lawyers had balked at when they found out he’d done it. Still, Nate stood by his decision.
“They stuck with me through it all,” he told the stern-faced lawyers — one bald, droopy-cheeked man, the other a younger, swarthy-looking man who blatantly ignored Brylcreem’s insistence that ‘a little dab’ll do ya.’ “I can’t give them a decent severance package. The least I can do is give them the money I owe them for putting out our last issue.”
The computers were gone, and with Deanna’s departure, all the decorations — the posters, the toys, the shelves of books — were gone as well. Nate’s own Lego robot and his North By Northwest poster were in the back of his Blazer, which was itself newly restored and still not paid for.
And so the white-washed walls appeared starkly white-washed, except for the tiny tack holes which the building management’s work crew would start to spackle that week. The tiled floor seemed so much brighter now under the flourescents, even with the office furniture still intact. There was a slight echo throughout the few rooms.
“It looks so empty,” he said out loud to test the echo again, and wondered how empty it would look when the office furniture rental guys came and took all the desks and filing cabinets away.
He sighed and stood, went to his office for one last look — one final check to make sure that he’d gotten everything.
He stared at the empty, dusty corners of his tiny office and sighed again. For six years, ever since he’d started the Scribe, he’d happily come to this office and did what he was most passionate about: he’d bathed in information, in facts and conjectures, in opinions and statistics.
In words.
Every day, immersed in words.
“All struck a finishing blow by one ignorant man’s whimsy,” he said to the dust.
The dust gave no reply.
So Nate spun on his loafered heel and headed the way Deanna had gone — out the front door. He switched off the flourescents, stood in the dark a moment, then opened the front door and stepped into the morning sunlight.
Outside, the street was mostly empty. Deanna’s Civic was gone, and someone in a pickup truck was pulling into her spot in front of the building. A man in Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt was walking toward him on the sidewalk. A line of people in vehicles waited to use the automated teller at the bank across the street. The air around all of them was hot and oppressive — the sun too bright, the Atlanta smog noticeably thick. The atmosphere reminded him of Marionville.
Then he heard a bird chirp in the maple tree to his left and he smiled. It was so hot in Marionville during August, even the birds didn’t chirp.
“Well, hell,” he said, “at least I’m not there.”
“Not where?” a voice asked in reply, and Nate started.
He whipped his head around to see that the man who’d been approaching on the sidewalk was standing beside him, smiling, a pencil-thin mustache perched under his small, sharp nose.
“Oh, nowhere,” he said to the man and smiled automatically — a friendly I-don’t-know-you-but-how-are-you-have-a-nice-day smile.
The man smiled back. He was a good head shorter than Nate and he beamed up at him with genuine — could it have been? — affection. Nate was tall, but the man was diminutive, only coming up to the bottom of Nate’s chest.
“Marionville,” the man said through his smile. His uneven but ultra white teeth flashed in the sun.
Nate turned to face the man full on. He gaped down, even as the man gazed up. The man rocked back on his penny loafers and chuckled softly.
“How did you know that?” Nate asked.
The man licked his thin, pale lips. “You’re Nathan Wells, the editor and publisher of the Atlanta Scribe. I recognize you from your headshot in the paper.”
Nate nodded, a little flattered but unsurprised. He wasn’t famous really, but people recognized him now and then. That still didn’t explain how the man knew he was thinking about Marionville just then.
“I remember a little editorial you wrote about how you grew up,” the small, smiling man continued. “First in Marionville, Georgia, then in Opelika, Alabama. Although the piece was a bit nostalgic, you didn’t paint the prettiest picture of Marionville. So, I figured if you were glad you weren’t somewhere, there was a fair chance that there was Marionville.”
Nate frowned and furrowed his eyebrows at the man. “Good guess,” he said.
Now the man laughed out loud. “Actually, it was an educated guess, and I should hope it was good — making good, educated guesses is what I do for a living.” The man shuffled back a step so that he could offer his hand to Nate and perform a little bow. “My name is Raymond Bernhardt. And now you’re wondering why I’m educated — even in the slightest — about Nathan Wells and his recently, dearly departed Atlanta Scribe.”
The Cast
- Nate Wells - Jay Elgin
- Raymond Bernhardt - Jeff Jarvis
- Narrator - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States - Compilation
It’s an exciting time for me right now - I am up to my ears in things to do.
This site is doing increasingly well. Within a reasonable amount of time, I will finish a novel that I’ve been working on for 4 years, which I can hopefully sell to someone someday. Martha Stewart has called me out again for another project this week. The kids are healthy and doing well in school. I have a bunch of short stories out there on editors’ desks awaiting their approval or rejection. Money’s not too tight. It’s not supposed to rain all week.
Which brings me to the purpose of this post.
For just over 5 months I’ve been incrementally posting a novel in a podcast format. This is NOT the novel I’ve been working on for the last several years, and for that reason, I think now’s the time to tell you about A War Between States and tell you where it stands among my work.
I started it about 7 years ago, and I THINK I’ve written about two thirds of it. I worked on it diligently for a couple of years back in 2001-2003 - there are about 17 chapters written, all told. Shortly after my daughter Madeleine was born, I abandoned it, although I always meant to go back to it. Then I got an idea for another novel - the one I’m working on now - and War took a back burner.
Before I abandoned it, I’d taken about 8 of the 17 or so chapters and cleaned them up - about 100 pages worth, so that were an editor or publisher to randomly show interest in something like it, I’d have something to present to them. Those 8 chapters are what I’ve podcast for you so far.
There’s more. And it’s coming. But the next batch of chapters is in fairly rough form - probably at a second draft level - and before I give it to you, I’d like to clean it up some and make it prettier and tighter. Trouble is, all those things I listed above are occupying a significant amount of my time and energy, and I don’t want to drop any of them to make room for War. Still, I feel like it’s an imperative now - and I SHOULD have been working on editing the next few chapters all along.
So that’s where I’m at, and here’s what I’m gonna do. All week this week, I’ll be doing my best to get a few more chapters prepared for podcast, and get my readers to come read for me, and hopefully there won’t be too much of a lag between posts (God knows there’s been 2 week lags before). But I’ll be doing it while I’m also balancing everything else - and that’s no mean feat. Please bear with me, and please enjoy what there is of A War Between States.
For your convenience, and for all the newcomers to my site and to this podcast, here are direct links to each of the chapters, in order. So now you can just click and go, and maybe give a listen to the whole thing….
Conquering Venus by Collin Kelley - A Podcast Interview with the Author
Collin Kelley is a critically-acclaimed, award-winning novelist, poet, and playwright from Atlanta. He has three excellent volumes of poetry as well as the novel we’re talking about here under his belt, which to me makes him a formidable force among local poets and writers. He’s been a journalist for over two decades, having worked for various Georgia-based magazines and newspapers. He’s also a consummate blogger, maintaining a longstanding and popular web site at:
http://collinkelley.blogspot.com/
It just so happens as well that Collin Kelley is my friend.
A couple of weeks ago, I sat down with Collin across a table and a microphone and asked him some pointed questions about his new novel, its standing as a work of “Gay Literary Fiction”, his place in today’s fluctuating publishing world, and his opinion of the Star Wars prequels. I decided that our interview would be that much more interesting if you could LISTEN to it. So here it is in a podcast format.
Below, you’ll find a series of questions in a readable format, each followed by an audio track of Collin’s answer. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did, and that you’ll go right out and pick up a copy of Conquering Venus (or click over to Amazon to buy one). It’s both a compelling and enlightening read.
Will: I know you spent time in Europe in 1995, just like the main characters of this novel. So that leads me to think maybe some of this is autobiographical. Is it? How much of it is?
Collin:
Following this question, Collin went on to share a few more words about the inspiration behind Conquering Venus and its eventual genesis:
Collin:
Will: What do you think of the idea that authors tend to inject some of who they are into their characters, or to use episodes from their own lives in their writing?
Collin:
Will: You’ve hinted to an almost mystical tie which binds the main characters of Martin and Irene. To what extent did you want to “lay on” this magical realism? In your mind - regardless of the perception of your readers - is the “magic” genuine? (After his answer, I had to follow on with a question that was dear to my heart - it also helped me sneak in a Star Wars reference. Listen closely!)
Collin:
Will: Your marketing campaign has happened in a “viral” capacity and largely on the Internet - where very little insulates you from anyone out there who might take issue with your very candid approach to gay characters. Has there been any backlash? (The answer is surprising, folks!)
Collin:
Will: How do you feel about the fact that the novel is distinctly labeled as “Gay Literary Fiction”?
Collin:
Will: Do you think sales and reception of the book would have been different had it been published back when you first started trying to do so, back before the setbacks to the gay rights movement brought about by the Bush Administration?
Collin:
Will: So then… is this version very different from before?
Collin:
Will: The publisher for Conquering Venus is Vanilla Heart. Tell us a little about them and your relationship with them.
Collin:
Will: Since the big presses are all looking for the next J.K. Rowling or Dan Brown, how do you see the role of small presses like Vanilla Heart in the future of publishing? How will it effect you and your book? (Somehow our discussion sidetracked to a discussion of electronic tools for media consumption, but I think that’s OK, because that’s part of his answer - the discussions go hand in hand.)
Collin:
Will: And what does that mean for physical bookstores?
Collin:
Will: You just got nominated for yet another Pushcart Prize. Tell us about the Pushcart - and how many times have you been nominated? (He hasn’t won yet - fingers crossed!)
Collin:
Will: So… how’s the new book (the sequel to Conquering Venus) coming?
Collin:
Will: And has Vanilla Heart contracted for it yet?
Collin:
Conquering Venus is available NOW from Vanilla Heart publishing. The book’s available at most online stores that sell books, as well as in finer bookstores across the country. Check out Collin’s web site for more details. Also be sure and check back later this week, when I present a reading of Conquering Venus by the author himself!
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Ten AT LAST!
Damn, sometimes getting this shit updated is HARD. Anyway, here it is - the rest of the “conversation” between Sheriff Boyd and our GBI agent friends.
A War Between States Part 10:
Chapter 6: Campaign: Tommy
July 22, 2003
Blue lights flashed in Tommy Krinshaw’s rearview. They cut through the dust that blew across the highway behind him, dust which had hidden the brown and gray police sedan as he blew by it at nearly 100, had cloaked the sheriff’s car while it followed Tommy and his passenger, Gerald Barnes, for nearly twelve miles.
They traveled all twelve of those miles with the speedometer at the 100 marker, listening to the Dixie Chicks on their car stereo, and wailing out garbled lyrics whenever Natalie Maines’ voice sneaked into their limited range. Their affinity for the Dixie Chicks was only one of many things the two had in common. People at work called them Tom and Gerry, and it always made the two chuckle, because Tom was the short one with big ears and deep brown complexion, while Gerry — Gerald, as he insisted on being called — was the taller one, with prematurely gray hair and wide, expressive blue eyes.
Tommy glanced into his rearview at the dark shadow of the cop car, which he could barely make out even now, in the gathering twilight.
“Well look at that, wouldja?” Tommy shouted to Gerald, who didn’t hear him. He reached out to turn the stereo down, just as Gerald was about to dare a higher note.
“What’dya do that for?” Gerald asked, frowning.
“Look, Ger — it’s the local po—lice.”
“Sheriff or state trooper?”
“Brown car. Looks like county.” Tommy had not slowed at all since he saw the sheriff’s lights. “Besides, state guy wouldn’t of tried nothin’.”
They rode on for a couple of miles more, listening to the Dixie Chicks as best they could through the disruptive blare of the sheriff’s siren. Suddenly, a megaphone barked behind them.
“I’d advise you pull over, sir. You’re already in danger of a felony.”
Gerald glanced at his friend and partner.
“What you gonna do?” he asked.
Tommy wrinkled his forehead and glared at the sheriff’s car in the mirror. “Well shit. I reckon I gotta pull over.”
Now Gerald grinned at him. “It’s all right, ain’t it? We’re way early anyway.”
Tommy couldn’t help but grin back. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. I just wanted to call Monica before the briefing.” He slowed the car to a negligible speed and edged off the shoulder. The sheriff pulled in behind them.
“I dare ya to get out right now,” Gerald said, “with your hand in your jersey pocket, and run back to where he is, shouting, ‘I got my license right here, officer! I got my license right here!’”
“No way. That local fucker’ll cap me in the head ‘fore I got to the back of our car.”
“I know.”
Tommy turned the car off. He looked again at his partner, his forehead wrinkled again, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. He saw Gerald’s toothy smile, which had never gone away. His own expression softened.
“Ha ha,” he said. “Very funny. But don’t forget that I’m the only reason you ever made Detective. You’d miss me if I was gone.”
“Fuck you, Krinshaw,” Gerald said, still smiling. Then he pointed. “Look, Officer Fife is here.”
A tall, ungainly man leaned toward the car window and stared in. Or maybe not, Tommy thought as he turned to face him. Tommy noted the man’s outdated mirrored sunglasses, and wondered about the man’s eyes. What would those eyes say? The rest of the officer’s face remained stern, and otherwise unreadable. An unruly mop of thinning brown hair crowned his head. His skin was ruddy and splotchy and freckled — the skin of a man who spent more time out in the sun than his melanin-deficient complexion could withstand. His brown and khaki uniform was rumpled, the armpits stained dark, the buttons mismatched, the seat of his pants worn thin. He spoke, and Tommy noted that his teeth were uneven and stained yellow from cigarettes.
“Roll your window down, sir,” the sheriff said. Tommy did.
“Evenin’, officer. How’re ya?” Tommy asked garrulously. In the background, Gerald waved a couple of fingers as a greeting.
“Fine,” the sheriff said. “License and registration, sir.”
Tommy reached toward the inside pocket of his light rain jersey while Gerald popped open the glove compartment. The sheriff’s eyebrows shot up and his hand went to his holster.
“Slowly, please. And only one of ya’ll at a time.”
Gerald stopped in mid-action as Tommy slowly peeled his jacket open without putting his hand inside. He stared up at the sheriff’s hidden eyes.
“Just doin’ what you asked officer,” he said.
The sheriff visibly relaxed.
Tommy pulled out his long wallet and flipped it open. His shield flashed dully in the dying sun. “Thomas Krinshaw,” he said. “Georgia Bureau of Investigation. Captain Thomas Krinshaw.”
Whatever the sheriff’s eyes said now didn’t matter, because his whole face expressed his shock. As a finishing blow, Gerald reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the car’s information. He handed it across Tommy to the sheriff and grinned again.
“And I’m Gerald Barnes, also of the G.B.I. Nice to meet you, Officer —” He squinted at the man’s brass name tag. “—Boyd.”
Sheriff Boyd took the registration and insurance card from Gerald, his jaw working, clenching and unclenching. The two men in the car watched and waited. Finally, the sheriff spoke: “Ya’ll know ya’ll was doing over a hunnerd — all the way from Killing’s Crossroads down to here?”
Tommy and Gerald nodded in unison.
“Yessir,” Tommy said. “We’re in a bit of a hurry.”
“Ya’ll got someplace you need to be?” the sheriff asked. A hint of a grin danced on his thin lips.
“Yessir,” Tommy said again.
“Is it in Crayton County?” the sheriff asked. He glanced at the registration quickly and handed it back to Tommy, who took it and tossed it back to Gerald.
“Uh… no. No sir. It’s in Seminole County. Way further south.” Tommy said. Gerald rasied his head from the registration booklet and opened his mouth to say something. Tommy glared back at him, narrowed his eyes briefly, and turned back to the sheriff. The sheriff’s eyes remained hidden behind his sunglasses, but Tommy didn’t think the sheriff had caught their exchange. He wondered why Sheriff Boyd kept his glasses on, even though the evening was settling in.
“Well, ya’ll need to be careful,” the Sheriff said authoritatively. “There might not be any people on the road, but there’s likely to be deer. You hit one of those and you ain’t going nowhere anymore. ‘Cept to the hospital and your insurance agent.”
“We’ll be more careful,” Tommy said.
“I’m gonna have to put this on my report this evenin’,” Sheriff Boyd said.
“Yeah…. Yessir. I understand.”
Sheriff Boyd straightened, and Tommy could see that the man was formidably tall and unusually gangly, with a slight paunch and thin arms.
“Ya’ll have good ‘un,” the sheriff said, and tapped the roof of their car with his index finger. He hitched his pants and strolled away. Tommy watched him go in the side rearview, then rolled his window up.
“Why’d you lie to him?” Gerald asked.
“Same reason he didn’t have a record of our plates.” Tommy put the unmarked Taurus in gear and pulled back onto the narrow highway. He immediately pressed down on the accelerator — hard, and the car veritably rocketed away from Sheriff Boyd in a cloud of spiteful dust. “Local law enforcement in Marionville and Crayton County can’t keep their mouths shut,” he continued once he’d put a hill or two between them and the sheriff. “Last several times Fran and Mick tried to get a big bust to go down in this no man’s land, there wasn’t nothin ‘round to bust.”
“Is it really the local law that tattles?” Gerald asked.
“Yep. Fran said she was sure of it.”
“Why? Is the law in the local element’s pocket?”
“Naw. And that’s the funny thing. If good ol’ Sheriff Boyd was gettin’ payola, we’d nail him right alongside this Williams fella. But he ain’t. Fran says she figures the local law is just concerned about their reputation, or else just dumb.”
“He didn’t look all that dumb,” Gerald observed. “Little backwater, maybe. But not dumb.”
“Yep. I agree.”
“So what kind of reputation does Marionville want to keep?”
“It’s a quiet, quaint little town. Lot of historical markers, some really old houses. Not much industry ‘sides farming and tourism. Farming hasn’t done too good lately, and if the tourists and retirees — what few come to the town — ever caught wind of the drug trade that passed through quiet, quaint little Marionville, who knows what’d happen.”
“But if we crack this Williams guy, won’t that stop the traffic through Marionville and make it okay again?”
“It’ll still make headlines.”
Gerald faced forward and watched telephone poles and fields of late cotton pass by. Tommy switched his headlights on.
The Cast
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Tommy Krinshaw - Bret Wood
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Gerald Barnes - Jason Hodges
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Sheriff Boyd - Dennis Maguire
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Narrator - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Ten TEASER
Alas, I am still not finished with this installment. But I have done enough that I can give you a little taste of what’s to come. Here follows the introduction of our final main character, a GBI agent named Tommy Krinshaw. He and his partner Gerald are about to have a minor run-in with Sheriff Boyd. Remember Sheriff Boyd? He’s not Deputy Soames.
A War Between States Part 10 (Teaser):
Chapter 6: Campaign: Tommy
July 22, 2003
Blue lights flashed in Tommy Krinshaw’s rearview. They cut through the dust that blew across the highway behind him, dust which had hidden the brown and gray police sedan as he blew by it at nearly 100, had cloaked the sheriff’s car while it followed Tommy and his passenger, Gerald Barnes, for nearly twelve miles.
They traveled all twelve of those miles with the speedometer at the 100 marker, listening to the Dixie Chicks on their car stereo, and wailing out garbled lyrics whenever Natalie Maines’ voice sneaked into their limited range. Their affinity for the Dixie Chicks was only one of many things the two had in common. People at work called them Tom and Gerry, and it always made the two chuckle, because Tom was the short one with big ears and deep brown complexion, while Gerry — Gerald, as he insisted on being called — was the taller one, with prematurely gray hair and wide, expressive blue eyes.
Tommy glanced into his rearview at the dark shadow of the cop car, which he could barely make out even now, in the gathering twilight.
“Well look at that, wouldja?” Tommy shouted to Gerald, who didn’t hear him. He reached out to turn the stereo down, just as Gerald was about to dare a higher note.
“What’dya do that for?” Gerald asked, frowning.
“Look, Ger — it’s the local po—lice.”
“Sheriff or state trooper?”
“Brown car. Looks like county.” Tommy had not slowed at all since he saw the sheriff’s lights. “Besides, state guy wouldn’t of tried nothin’.”
They rode on for a couple of miles more, listening to the Dixie Chicks as best they could through the disruptive blare of the sheriff’s siren. Suddenly, a megaphone barked behind them.
The Cast
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Tommy Krinshaw - Bret Wood
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Gerald Barnes - Jason Hodges
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Narrator - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Nine
This particular installment is simply an “Interlude” wherein I give you the article which appeared in Nate Wells’s newzine, The Atlanta Scribe. So now you know how stupid and insidious some people’s virulence can be.
A War Between States Part 9:
Another Sodom Down The Street?
Local Church Battles Opening of Bar
On Friday night, the crowd outside of the newly opened R Bar consisted mostly of gay men. They were having a good time, dressed in too-tight T’s and blue jeans, smiling and laughing and waiting for their chance to get into the tiny, crowded hot spot where glamor is casual and the drinks are small, colorful, and expensive as hell.
The day after, the crowd outside of R Bar consists partly of those same gay men — but today, they don’t smile as much, and it’s not them who are making the bulk of the noise which drifts down quiet Rigby Street, in Southeast Atlanta.
This time, the noise comes from the other part of the R Bar’s crowd — the troop of protesters from nearby Rigby First Baptist Church, who march on the sidewalk across the street from R Bar, wielding signs which say things like:
WE DON’T WANT TO BE NEARBY WHEN GOD DESTROYS THE NEW SODOM!
GENESIS 19:24 — REMEMBER IT WELL!
NOISE POLLUTION! STREET POLLUTION! MORAL POLLUTION!
“The way they conduct themselves is an abomination before the eyes of the Lord,” says Angie Nordstrom, 51, one of the protesters and a resident of this part of Atlanta for the past twenty years.
“We can’t allow such lewdness to continue,” says Sam Cox, 33, also a longtime resident of the neighborhood. “Especially so blatantly, where children can see it and be lured in by it.”
“Our children aren’t safe with such perversion down the street. And why must our eyes be subjected to fliers which promote this pit of sin?” says Adam Hicks, a deacon at the Rigby First Baptist Church, indicating a corkboard on the outer wall of the R Bar, which is covered with scraps of colored paper advertising everything from CD releases by local artists to drink specials at the bar. “We have to look at this garbage every time we walk past it.”
These are the sentiments of all the protesters — some 75 to 100 strong — who have gathered here on this bright, blistering hot, sunny Saturday afternoon. Most of them are members of Rigby First Baptist, although a few come from other churches around town, and are here to ‘lend [their] support to this important cause.’
And what do the men entering and leaving the R Bar think of the crowd across the street?
“Well, those men over there don’t dare cross the street, honey, ‘cause they know they’d get a glitter-covered boot up their God-fearin’, wife-beatin’, pussy-lovin’ ass,” says Rob, 24. “And the women, they want us — all the more because they know they can’t have us.”
His feelings are among the more extreme.
The feelings of the majority of the gay crowd are expressed more accurately by Ben Semmes, 30: “Whatever. This is nothing new. Ever since I figured out I was gay and began living my life honestly — as a gay man — I’ve had to contend with religious zealots and right-wingers who not only disapprove of me and my lifestyle, but go out of their way to interfere with it. I think it’s sad that certain denominations of religion perpetuate themselves on denouncing the way other people live — whether they know anything about those people or not. Hate. That’s all it is – pure and simple hate. I believe in God — but I think he’d redress their behavior long before he’d attack mine.”
The R Bar opened last New Year’s Eve on the southeast side of the revitalized East Atlanta Village. In past years, the area has become an interesting and potentially volatile mix — of lower and middle class white people who held onto their quaint houses through the white flight of the 70s and 80s, of lower and middle class black people who moved here during those same decades, and of the newcomers: decidedly middle class whites and blacks who thrived during the economic boom of the 90s, but not so much so that they could afford $400,000 houses in Decatur and Vinings.
When the R Bar opened, it was hailed as a low-key alternative to gay hot spots like Backstreet and The Armory. Sure, the music is loud, and the drinks are expensive — but comparatively, not that loud, and not that expensive.
For several months now, the bar and the church seemed to be coinciding just fine. Not a peep. Not a complaint from either side.
But apparently, something was going on.
Rafael Montoya is the owner of the R Bar. He is a diminutive, olive-skinned man, comfortable-looking today in loose blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and slightly scuffed black leather boots. He’s busy tending his own bar and shouting terse orders to his staff, but not so busy that he doesn’t acknowledge what’s going on outside.
“The bulletin board?” he responds when he hears what Deacon Hicks had to say. “It’s on the side of my building. I own this building. I don’t bitch about the message board they have in front of their building. And they don’t have to pass by it to get to church. Their parking lot is on the other side. Besides — I require that all the posts on the board be tasteful. You want tacky and lewd, go somewhere else.”
As immediate as his chagrin might seem, he does pause, shake his head, and sigh wistfully. “We close on Sunday. Out of respect. And the walls are soundproofed — there’s little or no noise. I don’t understand all this hype, and I guess I never will. But I tell you this: I thought I was being savvy moving in here. If I’d have known….”
So far, Montoya doesn’t think the protests have interfered with his business.
“But eventually something’s gonna come to a head, and I’ll probably be on the losing side of that,” he says. “And even if nothing does boil over, somebody’s gonna get fed up and just go away…. I hope it’s them.”
Judging by the hatred and disgust evident on both sides of the street — is it possible for such virulence to be hotter than the afternoon itself? — it’s hard to predict. But Montoya’s right: some Saturday in the future you’ll be able to drive down Rigby Street and one group or the other won’t be here.
Narrator - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Seven
Last week we left off with Nate about to take a scary phone call. What was the purpose of the call? Who’s Dick Burrell? Well, nobody died (not yet!) but it’s pretty shitty nonetheless. Read (and listen) on!
A War Between States Part 7:
Chapter 4: Campaign: Nate, Part Two
July 8, 2003
“This is Nate Wells,” he said.
“Hey, Nate. This is Dick Burrell.”
“Hey, Dick. Deanna says you want to pull your ad.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Can I ask why?”
For a moment, there was silence on the other line, and Nate could just see Dick – handsome, diminutive, platinum-dyed blond – biting his lip and shuffling his feet on the expensive tile floor of his salon.
“Listen, Nate. You and I go back a long time — to ever since you started the Atlanta Scribe and I opened my salon. I consider you a partner of sorts. A friend. And I’m proud of the way your paper has represented me and my community. So you know I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t serious.”
“What? What happened?”
“Well, the week after your article ran — the one about the R Bar’s problems with that church — I got a phone call from a guy named Fowler. Said he was pastor of the Evangeline Baptist Church, and that he was contacting folks who advertised in the Scribe to let them know, if they didn’t already, that they advertised in a publication that catered to the ‘lowest common denominator,’ and that their advertising dollars went to support purveyors of acts against nature and acts against God.”
“Evangeline Baptist Church? That’s nowhere near R Bar and Rigby Street Baptist.”
“No…. No, I don’t think it is.”
“Well then, what the hell is Fowler doing getting involved?”
“That’s not the point, Nate. Point is, he is involved.”
“Okay. Then after he said all that, didn’t you get upset? Didn’t you argue with him? I mean, he was saying some nasty things about you, at least by implication.”
“You know I did. I told him to take his lowest common denominator and acts against nature and stick ‘em up his ass. To which he replied, ‘You’re demonstrating exactly the vileness and disrespect for God’s Word that I’m campaigning against.’ Then he told me to stop advertising with you or I’d be sorry.”
“And you said?”
“I repeated my suggestion on the relocation of his acts against nature. And then I hung up. Didn’t think anything of it — figured Fowler was just another crackpot fundamentalist skimming for dollars and banging little boys behind God’s back.”
“But then?”
“Then that Saturday afternoon rolled around and nobody came into the shop.”
“Huh?”
“Nobody came in. Not a single person. I haven’t ever really given that much thought to it in the past, but Saturday has always been Blue Hair Day here at the salon.” Nate sighed and leaned back in this chair. He knew where this was headed. “All the old women come in to get their gray hairs dyed and get their perms,” Dick continued. “They all sorta know each other, and it’s sometimes kind of like a party. But I never imagined that they were that tight.”
“And you think Fowler has something to do with no one showing up?”
“I know he did. He called me around closing time that evening. I says ‘Hello.’ He says, ‘That’s what it’ll be like from now on.’ Then he hung up. Took a while to sink in, who might be callin’ like that. But I’m pretty sure it was him.”
Nate took a moment and thought about how to convince Dick to stay on board. He regarded the North by Northwest poster on the far wall and the Lego robot on his desk. He knew that if Dick answered his next two questions in the negative, the cause was likely lost. He’d run the R Bar article over three weeks previous, so: “Did the blue hair ladies come back the next Saturday?” he asked.
“No,” Dick answered.
“And what about this past Saturday?”
“You know they didn’t. If they had, I wouldn’t be callin’ you. I don’t make hasty decisions, Nate.”
Nate sighed and ran his finger along the Lego robot’s head. When he lifted his finger and inspected it, he saw there was a heavy layer of dust on his fingertip. “So I guess you’re thinkin’ this is more than just another frivolous gesture on the part of a religious kook,” he said.
“Yep. His follow-through has been just enough to actually hurt my business.”
“Is it hurting business that much?”
“It is now.”
“So you figure pulling your ad is the best course of action?”
Dick didn’t answer for a while. Then, quietly, “Yes….”
After another moment of silence, Dick spoke again — this time in normal, chipper tones. “Look, Nate, let me just sit out a couple of issues. Maybe that’ll give Fowler the feeling that he’s won this little moral victory. After a while this will probably blow over and we can go back to business as usual. It’s like I said — I’m happy with my ads in your paper. This is just temporary.”
Nate smirked into the phone, knowing that Dick couldn’t see the smirk, and that Dick had no idea how permanent the loss of revenue from his pulled ads would be. For a moment, he thought about begging, decided against it, and also decided against saying anything at all to Dick about how desperate the Atlanta Scribe’s finances were. He could hear the phones ringing elsewhere in the office, could see a couple of red lights flash on his own set.
“Nate?” Dick said.
“Yeah?”
“Whaddaya say? Temporary?”
Nate nodded before he spoke, then affected a smile he hoped came across to Dick as he said, “Yeah. Sure. Temporary.”
After a little small talk and a hasty good-bye, Nate hung up his phone. He looked up to see Deanna standing in the doorway. “I took care of everything,” she said. “How’d that go?”
“It sucked.”
She frowned. “Well, you’re not gonna like this one, either. Mama Leoni’s Pizza is on line one. Alfie says his Sunday after church crowd quit showing up. And Anita from the Highland Market called to say she finally got around to reading the Scribe. Says she’s appalled and that she doesn’t want to have anything to do with us anymore.”
Nate stared at the North by Northwest poster. He wondered if Cary Grant’s expression on the poster was anything like the one he felt on his own face now. Cary had a plane bearing down on him. Nate thought he knew how the guy felt.
“I’ll talk to Alfie,” he said. Deanna pursed her lips, nodded, and left, pulling the door closed behind her. At first, Nate didn’t pick up the phone. He just sat at his desk, gazed at the blinking light on the plane, and buried his face in his hands.
The Cast
- Nate Well - Jay Elgin
- Dick Burrell - Rick “Auntie Dote” Westbrook
- Deanna - Andrea Kruse
- Narrator - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part Six
Another short one, but AT LAST!!! one that revisits a character you’ve already met. In this one, Nate Wells returns to Atlanta after flipping his Blazer in his uncle’s parking lot. Turns out, the (probably) totaled SUV is the least of Nate’s concerns. This one will leave you wondering why Dick Burrell wants to pull his ad out of Nate’s paper. The answer to that comes next week. In the meantime, enjoy!
A War Between States Part 6:
Chapter 4: Campaign: Nate, Part One
July 8, 2003
Nate parked the Audi rent-a-car in his usual spot behind the building where his offices were. He decided that when he bought a new car (which might be next week if the Blazer was totaled), he’d look into an Audi, although he wasn’t sure he could afford one. Not yet anyway.
The sun bathed this part of East Point in a dazzling light. It wasn’t as hot as it had been the week before down in Marionville, but it was bright, and his blue eyes were sensitive to it. He squinted to watch a gay couple stroll down the side street, probably headed to Oz Pizza, the Corner Tavern, or one of the antique shops. A buxom black woman pushed a stroller, heading in the opposite direction. A line of cab drivers idled their cars in the direction of the MARTA station.
He sighed and got out, flipped his keys into his pocket, and walked into the cool interior of his office. In the front room was a collection of six desks, scattered almost at random all around, each with a computer on it, five of them occupied.
When Nate walked in, Rich Stephens immediately leaned back in his swivel chair and flipped the window unit AC down to low. Janine Moss hung up her phone and tried to look busy with her keyboard. Manny Chetwall closed a window — probably a porn site — on his computer. Nate had surprised them.
He grinned at the room, and they knew he’d caught them slacking off (and running the AC too high when they knew he was behind on the electric bill). They also knew he had instantly forgiven them. After all, he was a good boss. The best boss.
“Hey, Nate,” Janine piped, and they all greeted him after that, all with relief in their voices. Still, a certain amount of tension filled the room — tension that had been ever-present for months.
Deanna came into the room then, and the tension settled in and stuck to them like Saran Wrap. Nate found it a little harder to breathe.
“Hey, Nate. You’re early,” she said.
He forced a grin. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
She didn’t return his grin — Deanna was all business, all the time.
“Good. There are three calls parked on hold for you right now. Follow me.” She spun on her low, soft heels and left the front office, heading down the short hall which led to his office, her office , and the bathroom. He shrugged at the people in the room and started to follow her.
“Phil still not back?” he asked no one in particular.
“No. Didn’t you see him down there?” Janine answered.
“Too busy with family shit. Plus, I flipped my Blazer.”
He left them wondering — he liked to do that — and went down the hall.
Deanna met him in his office. He noted again how pretty she was, with her bob of auburn hair, her horn-rimmed glasses, her pale skin and blue, blue eyes. Then he again rued the fact that she was lesbian. He was sure they would be dating if she wasn’t gay.
And also cantankerous as hell, he reminded himself as she laid into him. Again.
“When you hired me, you didn’t tell me I’d have to take shit from nasty, mean-ass asking-for-money-I-can’t-fuckin’-give-them mother-fuckers,” she started.
He gave her a look that said he didn’t want to hear it again, and then simply asked, “Who?”
“Dude from Namco Printers called at 8:15, offering to ruin your credit if you didn’t front him at least a grand by Thursday. What was left of my head got chewed off by the guy from Express Printers, who said he wants all eight thousand by Friday or he’s out and out suing. Right now, you have calls waiting from the service bureau and a guy from the IRS about last quarter’s 941 bill. Neither one would just take no for an answer.”
“And the last call?”
Her angry look softened to a one of sadness, with just enough affection in it that Nate felt his heart flutter. “Maybe the scariest one of all. It’s Dick’s Hair Salon. He wants to pull his ad.”
“Did he say why?”
Deanna shook her head.
“Okay. What’s your evaluation of my predicament?”
Now Deanna brightened. This was the part she liked — her solutions, however temporary, to his ongoing troubles. This was where he relied on her. She could read people’s temperaments better than anyone he knew, and she had already established decent enough relations with most of his vendors and creditors that they trusted her, if not him. That included the tax man.
“I think you can handle half a grand to Namco,” she said. “That should hold Yumi off until next week at least. I think I can squeeze a thousand out for Express, which’ll appease them for now. Probably. I’m gonna tell the service bureau to kiss my ass — nicely of course — and I’ll try to drum you up another company to replace them for a while. As for the IRS guy — well, you fuckin’ owe him seven grand, and you better pay him. You can, and in full, if you hold our paychecks for two days, and if you can convince Dick not to pull out.”
Nate smiled at her Freudian slip, and she stared at him, oblivious. Neither said a word. He waited on her to realize what she’d just said, and when she did, she screwed up her face in distaste and said, “Fuck you, Nate. You know what I meant.”
“On so many levels, I know what you meant.”
She hit him.
“C’mon, you asshole. This is serious.”
He knew she was right. It was serious. So in his best imitation of Jean Luc Picard, intrepid Captain of Star Trek’s USS Enterprise, he said, “You’re right. Make it so.” Then, in his own soft drawl, he added, “You deal with the rest. I’ll take Dick in my office.” And he winked at her. She rolled her eyes and left him alone.
“He’s on two,” she said as she whisked back down the hall.
He shut the door to his office — something he was loathe to do — and sat in the comfortable swivel chair behind his cluttered desk. He gazed at the blinking red light on line two a while before picking it up.
The Cast
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Nate Wells - Jay Elgin
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Deanna - Andrea Kruse
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Janine Moss - Madeleine Kenyon
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Narrator - Will Kenyon