the flynn city egg man

7/31/2019 The Flynn City Egg Man

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Prologue

Flynn City. The place exists, for it is where I spent much of mychildhood.The sign mentioned in this novel also really existed alongthe two lane road, and told the brief history of Flynn City with yellowpainted letters on a background of blue, the state colors ofPennsylvania. If you cruise along Route 53, and end up in Coalport

or Fallentimber, you missed Flynn City. It is in the middle, lodgedbetween these two small towns. There existed also, the Alpine hotel,the Deep Hole, and the old mine shaft. There was a new school builton a hill during my youth, and it still stands today.

The area is worth seeing, and the people are some of the kindestfolks left on this planet today. I dont think I could have gained theknowledge anywhere, which I gleaned from growing up in the coal

patch in this microcosm of America. As tough as times appeared tobe, we truly all got along. This is also my wish for this planet. To getalong.

Ronnie Ray Jenkins

April 6, 2012


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CHAPTER ONE

SCHOOL DAZE

The stuffy classroom seemed built specifically with one thing inmind: Detention. It was a vintage 1969 Alcatraz constructed of

cinder block squares showing off scuff-marked yellow paint, anddesks lined up prison perfect. Seventeen-year-old Cuffy Landers, oneof the convicted, disconnected himself from the whispered tauntsdirected at him from the back of the room. He cursed under hisbreath for allowing himself to get caught chewing gum in the firstplace.

The principal, who was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Courtof Flynn City High, had struck down his defense in claiming it was

Aspergum issued by the school nurse for a sore throat. Youwould have to have a neck the length of a giraffe to need a wad ofAspergum as big as you were chewing on, the principal said.

Perry Mason, the television lawyer, could not have gotten him offafter that summation. The gum was only the first charge; it was thepack of matches, and half of a smoked cigarette that fell out of hisjacket in front of the shop teacher that did him in. He could havereduced his sentence by a day had his neck been as long as a giraffe.

Propping his chin on his hands, Cuffy conjured up variousimages of life in a different time and place. His daydream of storedmemories kept in the recesses of his mind made his mother live onceagain. The murmurs in the room grew distant as Cuffy tuned out theothers in the room and lost himself in the view of his Motherssmiling face. Her portrait grew clearer behind his closed eyelids. This


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year would be the third Easter without her, and he wanted to reachfurther into the portal of the daydream and touch her.

Three desks behind Cuffy, a jumbo paper clip, that had passed

hand-to-hand, found its way up to the seat occupied by TylerArmstrong, and became the weapon of choice for the attack onCuffy. Tyler locked and loaded the projectile by pinching it into thefold of a large rubber band. The two fingers of his left hand becamethe forks of a slingshot as his right slowly stretched the rubber bandback to achieve maximum velocity. His steady aim catapulted thepaperclip, and it found its mark in a split second.

Cuffys daydream exploded into a flashing white light of pain

when the paperclip slapped the back of his neck. Leaping from hisseat with a howl, he stormed out of detention with two wounds. Thefirst one was a growing stinging welt on the back of his neckperfectly matching the jumbo paper clip. The second wound--muchdeeper--was a soul-tearing muddle of anger and embarrassment. Asif detention alone was not enough of a punishment, the addition ofhaving to serve it with Tyler Armstrong--the paper clip assassin-- andhis pack of jackals truly made it cruel and unusual punishment. So, he

ran.The thick soles of his platform shoes clattered like hooves on the

cement hallway floor. Laughter poured out from the room, chasinghim. A distant voice of authority called out ordering him back, but heignored it. Lowering his head like a charging bull, his frizzled blackhair danced in front of his dazed brown eyes. At the stairs, hestretched his legs out taking two steps at a time. He never saw her.

The resulting collision scattered Sandy Trues books, binders, and

pens across the concrete landing. Two colored markers skitteredacross the floor and clicked to a stop against the dull blue cementwall of the narrow space. He watched them spin to a stop andreleased the grip on his English book. Tucked under his arm like afootball, he watched it slide out and land on the bottom step with acrack as loud and sharp as an executioners rifle shot. Flynn CityHigh Schools head cheerleader looked stunned as a head-butted ram.The fact that she was Tylers girlfriend found Cuffy wishing for a

firing squad instead of this, and, if offered a blindfold, he imaginedhimself bravely waving it off.

Spitting out a stuttered apology, Cuffy hoped she showed mercy,at least enough not to tell Tyler about this. Dropping to his knees,


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Cuffy clawed at some of her loose papers on the floor. His eyesdarted upward with a stealing glance, and he found himself staring.

Sandys knees clapped together with a soft smack and she clasped

her hands together in front of her blue and gold cheerleaders skirt.Looking up there was unintentional, and the last thing on Cuffysmind. Red-faced, he watched as her black and white saddle shoeimpatiently tapped the floor. Quickly, he turned to look toward themarkers and, with a growing embarrassment, he handed them up toher. Screeching chairs from the detention room sent him scramblingto scoop up everything in sight. The jackals were coming.

He flung the remaining books in her outstretched arms, snatched

up his English book, and ran down the last flight of stairs to the mainhall. At the end of the hall, the double doors leading outside crashedopen with the force of his shoulder. He ran until he crossed the wideparking lot and skidded to a gravel-spraying stop at the edge of theroad. The twisting and paved black ribbon was his escape route fromthe jungle of Flynn City High.

Adrenaline-pumped muscles held his thin body, erect: as stiff andstraight as the trees across the road from him. His chest bellowed

with every deep draw of the cold April air, and puffs of silvery breathpumped from his flaring nostrils. His eyes darted nervously from theroad then back to the school like an alert zebra taking watch at a busywatering hole. With a toss of his mane, droplets of sweat sprayed theair. The large tip of his right shoe pawed the loose gravel, preparing afoothold should he have to flee. For the moment, the silence offeredhim respite to hiss out the panic and fear filling him.

The biting wound gnawed at the back of his neck, a cruel

reminder of the rubber band launched paper clip attack. It stung likehell. Reaching up with his right hand to check for blood, he stoppedin midair. He trained his eyes on a white envelope in his callousedpalm.

Damn, he muttered.In his haste to escape from Tyler, his numbed brain failed to

register the envelope was in his hand. Sandys envelope, plump withpages hidden in it and sealed with double security, felt fat in his

shaking fingers. Cellophane tape across the back flap piqued hiscuriosity, as he wondered why the glue was not enough. When heflipped it over, a pair of pink, pouting, lipstick lips centered in thefront seemed to tease him to kiss back. There was no address.


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The red, raised weal on his neck seemed less painful with eachsniff he took of the perfume-wearing envelope. Reluctantly, he endedthe journey of odorous pleasure and healing. He slid the envelope

between the pages of his English book for safekeeping, deciding hewould give it to her tomorrow. It was for Tyler anyway, he thought,and being a Good Samaritan might buy him a stay of execution. Theofficial pardon would probably have to come down from Sandythough.

A sound like a gunshot split the air; Cuffy ducked, and thenchecked the front of his green windbreaker. His fingers were clean ofblood and there were no ragged bullet holes. Another one, closer this

time, had him flinching. With wide eyes, he searched for the sourceof the racket as another loud shot rang out. Relieved, he watched thesource of the noise approaching him.

The loud yellow panel truck backfired again, and swayed towardhim, its left balding tire crept across the centerline. Cuffys hairbounced off his shoulders as he trotted awkwardly across the road inthe ankle-bending platform shoes. The bell-bottoms of his blue andwhite striped pants swept the pavement with each hurried step.

Cuffy faced the rumbling truck and stuck his thumb high in theair, waggling it anxiously, praying it would advertise his desperateneed for a lift. The truck slowed to a stop, blocking him from hungryeyes that might be peering from the school. Thankful for the paneltrucks size hiding him, Cuffy hesitated to turn the dull chromehandle.

What would the jackals say if they saw him taking a ride from theFlynn City Egg Man? They would jeer him without mercy. Voices

and slamming car doors from the schools parking lot made hisdecision easy. He hoisted himself up on the scarred and grittypassenger seat.

The Egg Man slid the clutch out with his left fat foot trussedwithin a red ankle-high sneaker. The right foot mashed theaccelerator and the old truck responded slowly with an asthmaticwheeze. The engine gasped once, and the truck lurched forwardtossing Cuffy about the seat. It felt as if he was riding on the back of

an oversized rocking horse with defective rockers. He looked aroundto take his mind off throwing up from the jostling.

Order forms, candy and gum wrappers, and a crushed unopenedbag of pretzels littered the drivers compartment of the truck. Threequart-sized chocolate milk cartons bounced on the floorboard in


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front of him, and Cuffy adjusted his feet carefully, not wanting tocrush them. It occurred to him it would not matter; after all he wasriding in a Dumpster on wheels.

Cuffy nervously tapped his fingers on his bent knees pulled tighttoward his chest. The shorter Egg Man wiggled his weight on a thickpillow reminding Cuffy of a hens ass settling down on a nest full ofeggs.

The Egg Man acknowledged Cuffy with a curt nod as his pudgyfingers protectively clutched the steering wheel. He peered over thedirty dash, and cleared his throat with a territorial growl ofprotection. The truck was his domain, his source of income, and the

place he spent upwards of fourteen hours a day, six days a week. Itwas out of the back of the truck that he peddled his goods.

* * *

Cyrus Flannery became the Flynn City Egg Man the day he losthis job at the A&P in Coalport where he had been a butcher formore than thirteen years. His dream job, with the promise of a

promotion, ended when the Mega Super Market and the new road toAltoona were finally finished.

Wellford J. Sprinkle, Flynn Citys congressional representativepromised it would bring scads of jobs to the area. They named theroad after him. Super stores came; each one more super than theother and the Congressman died a wealthy man. Now, the Flynn Cityfolks travel fifty-seven miles to save on the cost of their grocerieswhile paying triple for gasoline.

They built a monument of stone with a brass plaque near theWellford J. Sprinkle shortcut to Altoona. Out of the goodCongressmans effort, a ritualistic rite of passage was born for theFlynn City males and, on occasion, a brave female. The Tinkle onSprinkle bladder emptying relief stop is like a visitor to Irelandkissing the Blarney Stone. It is sort of the Flynn City polite way ofsaying, thanks a lot for-- nothing. The highway department sends aguy around once a year to clean the green corrosion off Congressman

Sprinkles brass smiling face.The Congressmans pocket-lining idea also resulted in the loss of

the Egg Mans job at the A & P. This is when they say the Egg Manbegan to act different as the Flynn City people put it. He actedeven more different when his mother died. The Egg Mans mother


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doted on her only child right up until she could not leave the couchand ended up dying on it. The chest cold the Egg Man treated withthe onion poultices heated in the oven might have worked; however,

it turned out it was pneumonia and not a chest cold. He blamedhimself for her death, but then, he blamed himself for just abouteverything that happened.

As for his father, he had been a draftee of World War II whoended up missing--not as a victim of war--but a victim of the wrongmarriage to the wrong woman. When his tour was up, he neverbothered coming back to Pennsylvania; in fact, he did not bothercoming back to the states at all. He hooked up with some French

woman, and that was the end of the Egg Mans father figure. Someof the Flynn City people believed that is why he leaned a little towardthe feminine side. That was the way they put it, anyway.

* * *

Where are you heading?The Egg Man peered through glasses with thick lenses and black

frames. His head bobbled back and forth as his eyes roamedrepeatedly from the road and back to Cuffy as if anxious for animmediate answer.

You can drop me off by the sign, Cuffy said, Thatll be goodenough. Cuffys voice was caught somewhere between a man and aboy, and the seventeen-year-old year high school seniors words cameout with a gurgling trill.

Are you sure you dont want a ride to your house? Im heading

that way. He had often seen Cuffy outside carrying buckets of waterfrom the spring back to the house where he lived with his father.

Nah, the sign ought to do it.Everyone living within ten miles of Flynn City knew the sign, and

since the Egg Man lived a half mile north of the only road passingthrough the town, he passed the sign more times in one day thanmost people did in a month.

So, are you coming from baseball practice? Empty bottles

under the seat clinked as they rounded a curve and the roar of themuffler had Cuffy struggling to hear the Egg Mans soft high-pitchedvoice. He cupped his hand over his left ear to amplify.


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Huh? said Cuffy. His eyes shifted to the big side mirrorexpecting at any moment for Tyler Armstrongs red pickup truck tocome into view.

Ball practice? Is that where you were? The Egg Man repeatedlouder.

Uhnah, had to, uh used the library for a report, Cuffy lied.A tree frog trill also manifested in his throat when he lied.

The Egg Man arched his eyebrows, puzzled at the sound ofCuffys voice, and then he spoke.

Well, nothing wrong with using the library. Im a big readermyself and so was my mother. His words trailed off sadly.

The Egg Man stared out the windshield. Cuffy thought he saw atear rolling down the freckle-covered, chubby face of the man.Studying him, Cuffy figured him to be in the thirty-something agerange. The Egg Man cranked his window down an inch. It squeaked,and a gust of wind caught his combed over red hair revealing a baldspot. Cuffy shifted uneasily in the worn seat and turned to check themirror again. The Egg Man started to hum. He was still hummingwhen he dropped Cuffy off in front of the Flynn City sign.

Thanks for the lift.The response from the Egg Man was one long hum and a nod.

Cuffy returned the nod and slammed the old trucks door, sending ahair lifting puff of air through the truck. The Egg Mans comb overfluttered.

Different, Cuffy thought. He watched the noisy truck pull awayfrom the sign. Reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker, he tookout a crumpled green and white pack of menthol Kool cigarettes. He

fumbled in his jeans and found the matches he used earlier in the dayin the bathroom at school. The same matches that the shop teachercaught him with and which led to his three days of detention.Lighting the cigarette, he took a long calming drag from the bentsmoke and looked at the sign.

Flynn City, he scoffed to a dented beer can imprisoned by ahummock of brown grass at the base of the sign. He extinguished thematch with a shake of his hand and tossed it to the ground. Flynn

was the most unforgiving piece of terra firma on the planet in Cuffyseyes. He ground the match into the wet dirt with his huge heel.

It certainly did not deserve the title of city, he thought. A softsnap of his thumb flicked the growing ash of the cigarette into thewind. He smiled at the thought of being a tour guide. He would not


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sugarcoat it, but would provide an uncensored account and view ofthe place to tourists. Certainly, he concluded, they would be lost ormisguided tourists. He could not imagine anyone coming to this

place on purpose. Most people desperately wanted out.As Cuffy often times put it, Flynn City is not a city at all. So,

forget about filling your head with crosswalks, honking horns,bustling crowds, or traffic lights. There is none of these except for anoccasional horn and, yes, there are people. Seventy-eight beings, ifanyone cares to count.

The sign provides slim information. Flynn City settled by Joseph.Flynn and family in 1850. That is the gist of it, or as the Flynn City

folks say, Thats all she wrote. They say it often times to end astory, especially if they doubt the validity of it.

In the early spring of 1969, there was not a Flynn anywhere nearthe town. Word has it they made off long ago with the money fromthe lumber business that the founder started, and skipped town.There was always the search for greener pastures in the form of freshprime hardwood timber. Armstrong Lumber took over where theyleft off.

The former coal companies took care of the remaining naturalresources, leaving behind evidence in the form of spoil piles: Giantman-made droppings of slate and sandstone standing sentinel behindthe rows of ramshackle houses. Massive looming mountains of oldgray slate spontaneously combust and turn a blood red. Thereincarnation complete, the thin rocks serve a secondary purposewith a new name. Red-Dog is loaded up in pickup trucks by theresourceful to fill the holes and ruts teeming on driveways and

muddy lanes.The snaking red ribbons of the burned slate lead to mobile homes

and barely habitable company houses. Homes that sit forlorn likejilted brides dressed in black tarpaper. Brides with roofing nailbuttons shining on a fabric of black surrounded by the perfume ofspoil piles still smoldering. The sulfur stink on windless days hangsover the town as an olfactory reminder of days gone by.

There is one gas station with various tin signs nailed helter-skelter

serving to cover a similar chaotic pattern of holes in the aged boards.Many of them half-painted with an off-white paint and repairs madewith rough-cut lumber. Shreds of stringy brown bark still hang froma few boards.


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Tin signs spotted with reddish-brown rust hang dented and benton the side of the place. Moot messages long since interred in theMadison Avenue graveyard remain like ghosts peddling products like

Moxie Health Elixir, a green dinosaur selling oil, and a flying horsewith red wings spread in flight to hawk cheap gasoline. The crookedsigns plastered to the sides of the stout square building advertise as ifthe products are still available.

Inside, there is a dusty glass counter with Hershey and Baby Ruthchocolate bars in inviting display boxes. Tucked behind them arepenny candies and licorice whips. One noisy refrigerator holds softdrinks of various flavors and vibrates the floor with sole tickling

fingers. Coal dust, motor oil, and soot paint the wooden floorboardsfrom years of steel-toed boot traffic. The potbelly stove that faces thedoor sits lonely, beckoning for the former days of being a centerpiecefor impromptu meetings.

There is a cigarette machine where a pack of Pall Malls cost thirty-five cents. The owner, Tub Martin, refuses to sell them to the kidsunless they have a note from their parents, or unless he is too busy tobother asking. A shelf attached to the smoky wall holds military

formations of Bugler loose leaf rolling tobacco. The black silhouetteof a Doughboy bugler on each blue pack stands at attention. If theshelf tilts any further, they will march right off onto the floor. Ten-cents will buy a poke of Bugler including the rolling papers. TheFlynn City hippies sometimes buy it just for the papers.

The road in front of the place appears just feet away from thecrooked doorway: Its black pavement is rippled and indented,abusively tire-slapped by heavy coal and lumber trucks as drivers go

north and south, disregarding the posted speed signs. South will takea traveler to the real city of Altoona, and north will take them toother hamlets and villages that are the size of Flynn City or smaller.

Across the road from Tubs stands the locally famous Flynn sign.An old sign struck from iron and pitted from age. Shaped like akeystone, its background of blue paint is weathered and flaking. Theraised yellow letters are as ancient typeset and once long ago proudlyproclaimed sparse Flynn history to travelers. Today, a simple fresh

coat of paint is too expensive for the highway department to wasteon such a thing.

The sign, planted into the ground long ago by shovel-leaninghighway workers, shows evidence that the passage of time has notbeen kind to it. Now tilted, it looks frozen in a perpetual state of


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falling. The sleepy-eyed snowplow driver in the cold winters ofAppalachia does not hold all the responsibility for its presentawkward position: The Flynn City delinquents, often times out of

boredom and fueled with teenage testosterone, find the need toperform a variety of gymnastics on it.

The sign, much like holy water or a Buddhas belly, beckonsthem to touch. Especially when they are on their way to Coalport, thenearest town with a teen dance, pizza, and a Moose club with abowling alley in the basement that stays open until eleven. To theFlynn City teens, Coalport is a mandatory pilgrimage likened toMecca. The punished sign just happens to be along the route.

The hotel just up the road from the gas station has a pool table;however, its green velvet is off limits to anyone who cannot provethey are twenty-one. Lucky Harrington, the owner, knows who is andis not of age. Any attempt to play pool, buy beer, or do anythingother than buy a bag of ten-cent potato chips earns a stern headshakeand a finger pointed to the exit door.

Saturday night music floats out of the hotel pushed by the fatfingers of a cigar chomping piano player named Doogie. When the

hotels doors open, the music radiates as far as the Deep Hole, whichis across the road and down a path and leads to Clear Creek. Theorange creek is the closest thing to resemble a river around theseparts, but it has fallen victim to a king. King Coal and his subjectsturned its once clear pristine waters to the color of Orange Crushsoda pop with acid mine drainage; However, it doesnt stop it frombeing used for various recreational purposes.

The Deep Hole is the place where Flynn City folks swim in the

hot summers and the underage drink their beer in relative safety. Justbecause Harrington knows everyone, does not mean that someone ofdrinking age will not meet the under-age counterparts around backwith a few cold six packs of Iron City. Sometimes it is done out ofthe goodness of their hearts, other times for a pack of Pall Malls, or abuck. It is best to catch them when they have already been inside fora few hours though. They never turn you down; it seems the ten-centdrafts bring out more goodness in their hearts.

The majority of Flynn City folk are former coalminers and theirfamilies. A few of them work out of town in places like Harrisburg orAltoona in factories making toasters or coffee makers. The rest livehand to mouth on food stamps and a monthly relief check.


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The last in the melting pot are immigrants who came from Polandand Czechoslovakia and only two of them are left. Arriving in thetwenties with coal digging husbands long dead now, the widows still

speak broken English. Even the town delinquents help the widows,when needed, out of a sense of community. Bones Kaufmann, afriend of Cuffy sometimes pretends he does not understand themjust to watch the charade of grasping an invisible pump handle andpumping their wrinkled arms in the air. Overall, it is a close-knit placeand as the Flynn City folk say, Thats all she wrote.

Cuffy took one last deep drag off the cigarette and flicked it in aditch bordering the railroad tracks to the right of the sign. Across the

road, a lone car, parked under the canopy at Tubs gas station,honked with impatience for service. Another horn blew long andsteady with startling closeness. Cuffy whirled around to see a redpickup truck coming up fast and swerving toward him. Leaping outof the way, the three-inch heel snapped off his right shoe throwinghim off balance. Tyler Armstrong missed his markthis time.

Cuffy landed on his belly with his feet pointing to the murkywater. Sliding down the steep embankment, he clawed wildly at

passing clumps of cold brown grass. Plowing furrows of wet mudwith his big platform shoes, he hit the penny-thin clear ice. Gaspingwith the shock of the icy black water quickly reaching his knees, hefloundered and splashed across the ditch. Round stones plopped intothe drainage ditch because of his scrambling crawl up the side of therailroad bed.

Green bits of algae hung off his wet pants. The heat of his angerhid the feeling of numbing cold on his legs. Standing on the tracks,

he looked at his broken shoe and then the black water. The heel ofhis shoe was gone forever. He turned, centering himself between therusted rails of the tracks. Brown bristles of grass filled in the middleof the ties like a giant Mohawk haircut. He limped homeward withthe gait of a thoroughbred destined for the glue factory. Maybe hewould take the executioners blindfold after all..


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CHAPTER TWO

THE QUEEN BEE

Sandy True blew a pink bubble the size of her head and angrilypopped it with a clipping snip of her incisors. What is the purpose of

driving all over Gods creation and dropping everyone else off beforeher when her house was at the bottom of the hill? Who was thegenius on the school board that came up with that brain fart, shethought. The wad of gum cracked and snapped on her molarscatching the attention of the driver. His frowning forehead and eyesappeared in the bouncing wide mirror above his head. She smiled aquick sarcastic smile with straight white teeth that purveyedseductiveness well beyond her years. His annoyed look melted away.

The growling bus slowed during its descent down the windingroad passing the Catholic cemetery. Being a Protestant, Sandy couldnot help thinking how much better it would be if she were Catholicwith all the pomp and circumstance to it. She loved anything withdrama, and had a passion for acting. The Monkees, Hollywood, andgetting the hell out of Flynn City were her other obsessions.

Raking her long fingernails through her shining red hair, she slidher knees up with a skin-sticking chirp against the back of the dark

green vinyl bus seat in front of her. A flourished notebook, artisticallyscrawled with the names of classmates, hearts, and I love the 1910Fruit Gum Company, teetered on the edge of the bus seat. She wasa bubblegum chick with a penchant for bubblegum music. Openingthe notebook, she placed it on the top of her thighs. The bus slowed


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and the clicking of the flashing red lights signaled it was her stop.The letter she planned to finish would have to wait.

Before the bus stopped, she made her way up the swaying narrow

aisle balancing herself with her left hand on the backs of the seats.She staggered beautifully in her blue sweater, with Flynn in huge goldletters spelled cursively across her breasts. Long, lightly freckled legsand muscular thighs poured from the short cheerleader skirt stripedwith pleats of blue and gold. Flipping the hair hanging loose aroundher thin face, she smiled. The portly bus driver chewed a cud-sizedmix of Copenhagen snuff and plug tobacco which became visiblewhen he smiled back at Sandy.

A long sleeved green uniform shirt announced his name Fuzzyover the left breast pocket. His chunky face had stubble of three-dayold gray whiskers, and she watched his eyes as she hung onto thepole at the top of the steps, swaying like a stripper. The bus doorscreeched open and she bounced down the steps in the direction ofher house, prancing like a young playful doe on the sidewalk. Withone final test of her womanly skills, she fluttered a confident wave toFuzzy. A metallic shriek of the transmission sent her giggling toward

the house.Stanley and Madeline True owned one of the nicest houses on the

outskirts of Flynn City. A manicured lawn decorated with trimmedhedges and two huge oak trees on either side of the sidewalk that ledup to steps wider than Cuffy Landers outhouse was tall. Thescrubbed porch, coated with gray deck paint gleamed, and a porchswing of varnished cedar swayed empty with the chilling breeze. Sheskipped up the steps, disappearing behind a white storm door.

Sandy?Poking her head around the corner of the kitchen doorway,

before Sandy replied, was her mother. Dyed hair teased high on herhead appeared blacker than the frames of the horn-rimmed glassesperched on her nose. She danced into Sandys view wearing a one-piece navy blue pantsuit with straps covering a white puffy sleevedblouse. From her neck hung a chain with links big enough to hold arabid terrier. A huge fake gold Roman coin dangled from the chain.

Sandy squinted when the light caught it. The only thing missing is asaber, thought Sandy.

HiMom, she said rolling her green eyes and tossing her bookson the table.


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On the kitchen counter was an oversized white cloth bag. Mrs.True slid it off the counter and its weight tugged her arm downtoward the white tiled floor.

Hi dear, she said, sliding out one of the four red plasticupholstered chairs with chrome legs. She plunked the big bag on thered Formica table in front of her. Hot, wide, fluorescent pink lettersprinted on the side of the bag screamed, Bingo Mom.

Going to bingo tonight? Sandy asked. She slid into a chair.Yes. Naomi ispicking me up in about ten minutes. Mrs. True

dug through the bag and gently lifted out a one-inch high troll dollshe carried for luck and slid it in the front pocket of the bag.

Cant forget him now, can I? Her voice sounded musical, likefingers moving up the scale on a piano. She lovingly patted thecompartment that kept the troll doll hidden safely.

Oh Mom, by the way, class rings are in and I need the balancetomorrow. I owe twenty-two dollars, said Sandy.

Okay dear, Ill leave a check on the table in the morning, Herdeep red lipstick painted mouth let out a low whistle.

I remember when I got my class ring; the total for it was so

much less. I cant believe your ring costs sixty-five.Yeah, but I ordered the white gold and its more, Sandy said,

Oh yeah by the way Mom, this is 1969.Dont remind me. Just remember graduation is right around the

corner and it is going to cost your father a lot more with pictures andall. Plus, dont forget your gown and cap is extra.

Her mother sighed heavily as she slid the chair away from thetable. The shiny medallion clanged like a bell when it hit the edge of

it. She walked to the sink centered in the counterwork of the kitchen.The panels of burnt orange on the dark wood cabinets matched thepanels on the doors under the sink. She took a pill bottle from the sillof the window above the gleaming stainless steel sink. The windowoffered an expansive view of the big back yard. She opened the bottleand tapped a single pill in her palm. Slapping it in her mouth, her flatopen palm popped against her lips. Reaching up, she took a glassfrom the cupboard and filled it from the faucet. She took a drink of

the water, tossed her head back and set the glass on the counter.Before she completely swallowed the water, she spoke with a final

gargling gulp.By the way, your father will be home late tonight. Some big pre-

Easter sale at the dealership and they are staying open until eleven.


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He said theyre giving out those cute little colored peeps too. Mrs.Trues shoulders slumped.

Sandy recognized her Mothers body language and thought,

Jesus, I dont want to hear about how she wished shed never metDad, and finished college instead. It was too late, and Sandy bracedherself for the speech.

I wish we wouldve never left Cleveland, Sandy. It seems likeyour Dad is married to the car dealership, and I could understand ifhe owned it, but hes just a salesman.

Top salesman, Sandy said, dont forget that Mom. Hed tellyou the same thing.

Well, sometimes I wish I could do things all over again. For onething, I would have waited to get married. I should have finishedcollege then went off to Hollywood, as I had planned. Nope, insteadstupid old me listened to your fathers spiel. So, what did I end updoing? Its pretty evident isnt it? She swept her arm through the airshowing off the kitchen and continued, Well, I can understand whyhe made top salesman because he sure talked me out of my dream.They say once a salesman, always a salesman. I could have been a

star. She sighed, turned back to the window and picked up thebottle. She read the label with silent lips moving.

Sandy heard the salesman speech a million times. It droned in herhead and over time, she had learned to ignore it. She called it, TheEveryone is a Salesman Speech.

Dont let me forget I need to get this refilled before Friday,Honey, Mrs. True said.

Yeah, okay, Mom. She cracked her gum with her back teeth.

Oh, and by the way, did you make a call to California? It was onthe phone bill that came today.

Yeah, ummmI called a really cool college that sounded groovyand offers an excellent drama program, Sandy said. She opened upone of the notebooks in front of her, hoping the subject wouldchange, and casually flipped her hair.

Well, I was just curious. I know how hard you are trying to findschools that can help you get into drama. I only want the best for

you. I lost my dream and you have a chance to live yours, hermother said. Dont end up like me.

A car horn blowing loud and long announced an arrival andSandy got up from the table. Sliding the curtains back from the


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window of the side door that led from the kitchen to the wraparound front porch, she saw the car.

Its Naomi, she said, as she cheerfully waved to an older

woman with blonde short hair sitting behind the steering wheel of anidling car. Naomi was busy checking her lipstick in the rear viewmirror of the Buick Le Sabre. Sandy shrugged when no wavereturned from inside the car. Mr. True sold the car to Naomi and itput him over the top, as he would tell it.

Sandys mother picked up the bingo bag and grabbed a jacketfrom the three coats hanging on the rack by the door. She kissedSandy on the cheek saying, Wish me luck. Her voice raised up the

scale another notch as she sang her words.Sandy watched anxiously as the two women backed out of the

drive leading to the brick garage matching the house. She waited untilthe taillights of the Buick disappeared, then she picked up the booksfrom the table and sprang up the stairs to her room.

Dashing through the door, she opened the top drawer on thewhite desk that matched the canopy over her bed. She pushedaround crumpled papers, a box of paperclips, and a book of

psychedelic stickers that she ordered from some teen magazine. Shefound the book of postage stamps under the Fredericks ofHollywood catalog: It was the book, she kept hidden and from whereshe ordered the high-heeled stilettos setting on the floor by hercedar-scented hope chest.

Grabbing an envelope from a box on the cluttered dresser, sheplopped down on the bed and sorted through the books until shefound the notebook. She scanned quickly and ripped the one page

letter from it. It was good enough, she thought. Licking the stamp,she wrinkled her nose at the taste of glue. Taking great care, andsatisfied the stamp was straight, she rubbed it with her thumb.Wondering how long it would take to get to California from here, sheput the letter in the corner of the big mirror in plain view.Sometimes, she was just too forgetful. She could address ittomorrow. Smiling, she thought how clever she was to keep theaddress safely tucked in her locker at school.

Downstairs, she flipped through the pages of the phone bill thenplucked out the one with the California number on it. She carefullyput the others back in order. Snatching a book of matches from thekitchen counter, and the trash bag that her mother had filled with


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junk mail, old newspapers, and coupons that she no longer used, shewent out the side door.

In the backyard, she watched the flames in the old rusted burn

barrel carry the ashes and sparks into the dusk. She crumbled thephone bill page and threw it in the barrel, watching as it, too, burstinto flame, blacken, and then join the other white ashes that floatedskyward. She closed her eyes and her full lips moved as shewhispered a prayer. A simple plain prayer that she might get herdream and leave this town for the last time, she ended it with a soft,amen.

Suddenly, her eyelids fluttered, then sprang open with a wide look

of fear. The other letter! Where is it?She sprinted across the grass and leaped up onto the porch. Her

thumb slid off the door handle and she broke a nail on the secondtry. Her mind raced with the thought of anyone finding that letter.She would be ruined, destroyed, and dethroned as the queen of FlynnCity High. The door swung open hard with a rattling crash and shetore through the kitchen pumping her legs all the way to the top ofthe stairs.

She grabbed the notebook and fanned through the pages. Turningit upside down, she shook it over the bed. It was not in her Englishbook, or her History book. Nothing appeared under her bed as shecrawled around on all fours. What could have happened to it? Panicfilled her as she looked on the dresser, in the drawers, and shook thebed covers. It was gone.

Her face turned red with anger at her stupidity and she picked upone of the stiletto shoes by the long thin heel. She screamed loud and

threw the shoe like an axe. It sailed across the room and shook thewalls with the impact. The heel skewered Davy Joness thick blackeyebrows and the pointed toe covered the smiling face of Peter Tork.The other two Monkees on the big poster escaped her wrath, exceptfor the white powder from the drywall that seeped from betweenDavys eyes and dusted their colorful turtlenecks.

Oh Davy, I am so sorry, her voice trembled. She pitchedforward with a mournful groan, and collapsed face first into the bed

sobbing.


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We hope that you have enjoyed what you have read so far and wouldlike to continue on and see what happens next in Flynn City. You can

follow this link to purchase The Flynn City Egg Manas well as learnmore about the author Ronnie Ray Jenkins. We also hope you sharethis book sample and URL with your friends.

http://ronnierayjenkins.com

the flynn city egg man

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