Please review this fairly, it's not my first journey into a novel, but it by far my best work so far. I'm looking for this review of this page (and a half).
I woke up that morning around 6:30 a.m., a time in which only the Last Gasp Diner is open. My mother had died soon after I turned 18, and I was working full time as a caddy. My mother's large life insurance policy kept me going, so I was caddying to buy myself a car. I put on my uniform: khakis, argyle socks, dark shoes, a white undershirt, and a light, shabby polo with the top button left open. Those were pretty much the only clothes I had, and I wore them everywhere. For some reason, that day, I just sat on my bed, staring out of the window. The skyline of Centurion City was shimmering through the filtering lens of dusty glass.
I walked out of the door, making sure to lock it, and I started walking out onto the dewy golf course. It smelled fresh and clean, and I looked up adoringly at the Longhouse and the row of marble men. The greens and teeboxes were quiet and peaceful in the morning. A remnant of the storm front we experienced a couple of days earlier was set to hit today, but there would always be a few golfers who were just indefatigable about that sort of thing.
I started the long hike through Svenson Point. It was green, and the sandtraps glistened brightly in the rising sun's beams. The trees on the 6th hole were tall and foreboding, but the real menace on that hole was, of course, the water trap. It wasn't altogether that bad of a morning, but it was cold.
Soon after, I reached the Norwegian River. The bridge with which I could cross onto Elk Island materialized through the now foggy golf course. The sun hit the rising mist and projected rainbows all around. It was hard to believe I was still in the realm of the living. Something about the golf course seemed dead. The rainbows were plutonian, I guess. Anyways, the bridge was made of heavy concrete and steel, and it was the only way a car could be driven to the Longhouse. I noted that the Longhouse was a very lonely building, albeit a large one; it was isolated to a large degree, and so were the wealthy who frolicked there. There were no cars in the parking lot, and I was tempted to test my childish hypothesis about the mulled wine and the Viking runes.
The Vikings' blood runs strong through the veins of Centurion City, I think.
Well, anyhow, the river stretched on for what seemed like forever, I remember thinking. I knew it was only one mile or so, though. The muddy water must have held hundreds of living things. You could even see the long dorsal fin of the local monster if you looked hard enough. Hell, I thought I saw the Ruddy Pike, or Earp, as my mother always called the demon. There was a flash of sunlight and the huge fin disappeared back into the thick, organism-filled soup. I kept looking for it after that, but it hid deeper; still, though, I must have hunched over the bridge for longer than I should have. I kept walking, though, towards Elk Island, safely away from Earp and the country club.
Elk Island dominated the horizon now. There was only one building, the Last Gasp Diner, and that was my destination. That little hole-in-the-wall played the best goddamn music and had the best goddamn coffee; I needed both, too. The forest of the island was black, but the Diner always had a light on for weary travelers. I knew that there would be several cars in the parking lot before I had even seen them. The welcoming façade was brick and had psychedelic neon lighting: the kind with the vibrant orange color. The buzzing from the sign started to annoy the hell outta me as I walked closer.
As I stepped inside, the first thing that grabbed me was the music. Johnny Winter was just finishing up "Mean Town Blues." The announcer spoke incoherently into an obviously bad microphone. The Last Gasp Diner was a fine purveyor- and proponent- of pirate radio stations. I loved pirate stations; they played the best music and had the most insightful or drug-addled dee-jays. They were so eclectic, and they were never bound by the constraints of advertising. For a couple of hours, one or more guys would unwind and broadcast some massive tunes for the enjoyment of everyone. Dammit, these guys played something for everyone. Apparently, no music appealed to the police, 'cause they always shut the stations down.
For the moment, though, the station played uninterrupted. Listening closely, I heard that the station was KRUG, and that it played Kruggerand Rock. Eddie Bones, who was a regular at the Diner and a friend of mine, introduced himself as the dee-jay. He certainly fit the drug-addled profile, but he was clean the last time I checked. The next song was going to be "Outboard," by local surf-punks, Roony and the Winsomes (who, according to lore, were named after a record company executive in a book). I listened intently to hear the song.
It continues to be one of the best songs I've ever heard:
" Listen to the outboard roar
Down the Mississippi boat-way.
Hear the mixing waters turn into wine
And the thrash of our wake.
We snort some coke we scored
From New Orleans' gritty seaboard.
Don't ever give me a car to drive in,
But rather an outboard!
[Then, there's a Ramones-like guitar solo.]
Listen to the outboard roar!
Down the Mississippi boat-way.
Hear the mixing waters turn into wine
And the thrash of our wake.
Delta blues, bitches!"
According to Eddie Bones, the lead singer of Roony and the Winsomes was Roony Underground, and Winston Zeddmore, who had clearly named himself after the Ghostbusters character, was the lead guitarist. This band would probably be forgotten, just like every other garage band from Centurion City. The Cherry Tree Project, Advanced Placement Biology, Solzhenitsyn, and Apache and the Copters have a large chance of being forgotten despite their skills. Xavier "Longbow" Valence would even fail, most likely, and he's Centurion City's Woody Guthrie. That was the thing, though. They resigned themselves to obscurity because they hated the corporate structure, which was led by the same people I caddied for.
Well, that's neither here nor there. I walked up to the bar to get a cup of coffee. That glorious brown liquid was poured into a mug and served steaming. I took a sip and started smiling; the coffee was excellent as always.
"I'll also have some eggs and spam," I said to Tina. Everyone in town knew Tina; she knew everyone in town, too.
"Sure, hon." That was said to pretty much everyone, from the lowliest pauper to the highest crown-prince of business. Tina was a pretty woman.
Hey, flash artists, want an idea? Check this out: The Scarecrew
And everyone, please check out the latest humorous spy serial, The Frank Keretta Stories
