Read Online Second Chance by Chet Williamson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chet Williamson
Tags: Horror
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all. My God, we've got acid rain from factory owners who don't give a shit if lakes and everything in them die, as long as they don't have to clean the crap coming out the smokestacks. We've got global warming, and nobody in business is gonna care until the ocean covers their goddam corporate headquarters—"
"You're preaching zealously again, dear," Judy said.
"You want me to ignore it, Jude?"
"It's a party, dear. Lighten the fuck up."
Frank laughed in spite of himself. "God, put a mini-skirt on her, and her mouth goes back to the sixties."
"Okay, Frank," Sharla said. "You got a point. But what do we do about it, boycott Exxon?"
Frank smiled as if he were explaining to a child. "Blow up Exxon."
~*~
In the dining room, Curly Rider grinned as he looked over the bookshelves. "Wow, Woody, this is great. You kept all these?" Woody nodded, and Curly read the titles. " The Teachings of Don Juan, Che Guevara Speaks , Quotations from Chairman Mao . . . you read 'em all?"
Woody nodded. "The political stuff was kind of boring.”
“And the Don Juan stuff was kind of stupid," said Eddie, tapping the ash from his cigarette into his empty sangria glass.
Woody nodded at the glass. "We do have ash trays.”
“Where?"
"The beer cans?"
Eddie sighed, walked over to the sideboard where an empty can of Iron City sat, and dropped his butt into it. “Jesus, we were piss elegant, weren't we?"
" Steppenwolf ," Curly said quietly. "That was Keith's favorite, wasn't it? He must've tried to get me to read it a hundred times, but I never did."
Curly wandered into the living room while Eddie flipped through a stack of Rolling Stone . He held up a black and white cover photo of Joe Cocker, unshaven, hair unkempt, howling mouth open to reveal crooked teeth, his blooming paunch cut off by the orange bottom border. "A perfect picture of American youth." Eddie weighed the yellowing pile of tabloids in his hand. "I can't believe you even kept these."
"My folks have a lot of storage room." Woody smiled, remembering. "I got those all from Dale. He bought them when the three of us roomed together that one summer before he got married."
Eddie stared into the glass, empty of everything but a tiny pile of ashes. "I still miss him. Dale."
"So do I," said Woody, sitting next to Eddie.
"He was . . . kind." Eddie paused for a minute. "Did you know that we kept corresponding?"
"No." Dale had written two letters a month to Woody, right up until the week he died, but never mentioned writing to Eddie.
"That's like him. He wouldn't have wanted you to know."
Woody felt a psychic stirring, as if about to learn something he should have always known. "Know what?"
Eddie gave a quick little laugh and shook his head. "I . . . think I've had too much sangria. The devil's brew."
"It was a long time ago," Woody said. "It can't hurt anyone now. What are you saying, that Dale was bisexual?"
"No," Eddie said. "I'm saying that Dale was gay."
"But . . . Karen. I mean, he was married . . ."
"We were lovers, Woody. Just once, but that was enough."
"Holy shit," Woody said, thinking that maybe he had had too much sangria too. This wasn't registering the way he felt it should. "When?"
"That summer the three of us roomed together. You were rehearsing with the musical one afternoon. It was hot as hell, and Dale and I were here alone, we had a few beers, listened to music, got a little drunk and giddy with the heat, and one thing led to another." He sat for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. "Maybe I need a beer instead of more sangria."
Woody followed Eddie into the bathroom, where they drew two beers. The music, the other people, seemed far away. "It was all very natural," Eddie said. "I knew where his preferences lay. But afterward he begged me to forget it. He tried to blame it on too much drink, but it wasn't that." Eddie sipped his beer, licked his lips. "We didn't stay in touch after that summer. Nothing else happened either. He tried to avoid
"You're preaching zealously again, dear," Judy said.
"You want me to ignore it, Jude?"
"It's a party, dear. Lighten the fuck up."
Frank laughed in spite of himself. "God, put a mini-skirt on her, and her mouth goes back to the sixties."
"Okay, Frank," Sharla said. "You got a point. But what do we do about it, boycott Exxon?"
Frank smiled as if he were explaining to a child. "Blow up Exxon."
~*~
In the dining room, Curly Rider grinned as he looked over the bookshelves. "Wow, Woody, this is great. You kept all these?" Woody nodded, and Curly read the titles. " The Teachings of Don Juan, Che Guevara Speaks , Quotations from Chairman Mao . . . you read 'em all?"
Woody nodded. "The political stuff was kind of boring.”
“And the Don Juan stuff was kind of stupid," said Eddie, tapping the ash from his cigarette into his empty sangria glass.
Woody nodded at the glass. "We do have ash trays.”
“Where?"
"The beer cans?"
Eddie sighed, walked over to the sideboard where an empty can of Iron City sat, and dropped his butt into it. “Jesus, we were piss elegant, weren't we?"
" Steppenwolf ," Curly said quietly. "That was Keith's favorite, wasn't it? He must've tried to get me to read it a hundred times, but I never did."
Curly wandered into the living room while Eddie flipped through a stack of Rolling Stone . He held up a black and white cover photo of Joe Cocker, unshaven, hair unkempt, howling mouth open to reveal crooked teeth, his blooming paunch cut off by the orange bottom border. "A perfect picture of American youth." Eddie weighed the yellowing pile of tabloids in his hand. "I can't believe you even kept these."
"My folks have a lot of storage room." Woody smiled, remembering. "I got those all from Dale. He bought them when the three of us roomed together that one summer before he got married."
Eddie stared into the glass, empty of everything but a tiny pile of ashes. "I still miss him. Dale."
"So do I," said Woody, sitting next to Eddie.
"He was . . . kind." Eddie paused for a minute. "Did you know that we kept corresponding?"
"No." Dale had written two letters a month to Woody, right up until the week he died, but never mentioned writing to Eddie.
"That's like him. He wouldn't have wanted you to know."
Woody felt a psychic stirring, as if about to learn something he should have always known. "Know what?"
Eddie gave a quick little laugh and shook his head. "I . . . think I've had too much sangria. The devil's brew."
"It was a long time ago," Woody said. "It can't hurt anyone now. What are you saying, that Dale was bisexual?"
"No," Eddie said. "I'm saying that Dale was gay."
"But . . . Karen. I mean, he was married . . ."
"We were lovers, Woody. Just once, but that was enough."
"Holy shit," Woody said, thinking that maybe he had had too much sangria too. This wasn't registering the way he felt it should. "When?"
"That summer the three of us roomed together. You were rehearsing with the musical one afternoon. It was hot as hell, and Dale and I were here alone, we had a few beers, listened to music, got a little drunk and giddy with the heat, and one thing led to another." He sat for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. "Maybe I need a beer instead of more sangria."
Woody followed Eddie into the bathroom, where they drew two beers. The music, the other people, seemed far away. "It was all very natural," Eddie said. "I knew where his preferences lay. But afterward he begged me to forget it. He tried to blame it on too much drink, but it wasn't that." Eddie sipped his beer, licked his lips. "We didn't stay in touch after that summer. Nothing else happened either. He tried to avoid
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