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theamateurhimself · 25 days ago

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Be Sure It's True - Chapter 1

Foreword: This is a work of historical fiction that I've been working on and off for since 2019. The beginning of the story is set in 1936, and is a semi-accurate depiction of those times. I've been fascinated with history since as long as I can remember, and I've always wanted a romance story like Casablanca or any of those film noir pictures of that time featuring a same-sex couple. Here is my meager attempt at such. CW: Homophobia, Violence, Blood

The shop was quiet now, aside from the polishing rag squeaking its way down the soda shop’s counter. James Mallard, the kid behind the squeaking, had been working tirelessly to keep the counter at a near mirror finish between dozens of high schoolers, mothers picking prescriptions up, and the occasional shipyard worker fresh off shift to get a cool milkshake. The air moved slowly, driven by the lazily spinning ceiling fans.

It was his job not only to cashier and hand out medicine to customers, but also to keep the shelves in line, and to prevent the brand new Wurlitzer jukebox from playing the same record over and over again, as it was liable to do. Instead of the jukebox, however, Mr. Jenkins, the owner, allowed James to have a little Zenith tombstone radio on the shelf down behind the counter. Today, it was tuned to 570, the local CBS affiliate station. The only condition was that if someone put a nickel in the jukebox, the radio had to go off. But, as of now, the tinny sounds of Joe Reichman’s Orchestra filled the empty store.

James stopped scrubbing and stood triumphantly, looking over the pristine shop. It was a work of art, especially since the shop had been overrun with customers coming in at the last minute for pomade and makeup. However, the homecoming dance was only about 45 minutes from now, and the onslaught calmed down. James removed his little white soda jerk’s hat, and wiped the same cloth he used to polish the counter across his moist brow. His light brown hair was curly beyond belief, and did not always agree with his hats, especially when between haircuts.

James was lucky to get this job from Mr. Jenkins, as he replaced the recently outbound cashier over the summer as he had gone off to college. College was still a very distant thought in James’ head, since it was just over four years away from being a reality. Besides, this job paid handsomely for being just a freshman, at just under a dollar an hour.

Mr. Jenkins could afford it, luckily. He was a veteran of the Great War, and the deep wrinkles across his face betrayed the fact that he was a mere 42 years old. From the stories he sometimes told, James could only assume that he faced some of the worst that the Hun threw at the Allies over there in France. After the war, he was able to save enough cash to buy the struggling pharmacy. Jenkins even marched with the Bonus Marchers on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., before his emphysema really caught up with him.

His reminiscing quickly faded as the front door bells rang and a group of three couples traipsed through the pharmacy’s double doors. All of them were dressed to the nines, with well-fitted tuxedos for the gentlemen and glamorous, but not gaudy dresses for the ladies. Each man clutched their date’s arm, while the ladies clasped handbags that matched their spangled gowns. At the head of the pack was Art and his girl, Leona.

Arthur Haviland was the captain of the South Kitsap High School football team and was someone that you would make sure that you would get on his good side. He could get away with almost anything at the High School, on the accounts that his arm was one of the best things that ever happened to the football program since its inception. It certainly helped that his father was the captain of one of those huge dreadnaughts docked at the shipyard. Those factors combined to create a coddled, overpowered brat who roamed the halls of the High School with a cadre of underlings willing to bully anyone he deemed fit for torture.

Upon entering the shop the trio of couples went their separate directions. The first couple, Beau DeLisle and Margaret Branagan, made a beeline for the Jukebox on the right side of the store, parked next to the end of the counter. “The Silencer,” as they called him for his ability to silence opposing crowds with his impressive runs, did not live up to his nickname off the field. The pair took a seat at one of the small tables and began to chat up a storm. James saw this with a sigh, reached down and turned off his little radio. Luckily, Beau and Margaret had decent taste in music. The needle dropped, and the opening to “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie” crackled through the cloth speaker grille.

The second couple was led by Ruth Stevenson, who dragged Peter Laurence by the wrist to the cosmetics section. Peter was a very quiet kid for someone who ran with Art and could easily beat anyone in the school in the 100-yard dash, he could not outrun the incomparable, though conceited Ruth. A little birdie told James that Peter was Ruth’s fourth boyfriend since she became an upper-classman. While she sifted through the loads of different lipstick and mascara, Peter had a look on his face as though someone had laced his tonic water with barbiturates. Every so often, Ruth would put two lipsticks or blushes in front of his face, and he would choose, with a disinterested finger, the cosmetic he thought looked the most different.

But the first couple, the one that James despised the most, walked straight up to the counter.

“Well, well, well,” Arthur said in a very condescending tone. “If it ain’t James, the goody two-shoes sophomore I’ve heard so little about.” He leaned one elbow on the mirror-polished counter, while he wiped his other hand down it. The Trans-Atlantic accent was thick and clear in the words of the overgrown Navy brat. After all, his dad was a big whig in the Navy, and secured a nice cushy job in the Naval Shipyard across the inlet, and Arthur boasts that it was his dad that brought the big green crane to the Shipyard.

James huffed, and asked, “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a chocolate milkshake and,” he turned to his girlfriend. Even in the harsh light of the pharmacy, she looked like a doppelganger of Fay Wray, down even to the wavy texture of her immaculate hair.

“Nothing for me, James,” Leona said, in a tone that suggested an apology for the actions of her date. Leona, though she always ran with the jocks and bullies, still was courteous in her demeanor, something that not even going steady with Arthur could do.

“You can handle that, can’t you? Oh, and be sure to make the damn thing thicker this time.” Arthur asked with that patronizing tone, before turning back towards Leona. “I am a growing boy, after all!”

James turned to begin work on the shake, powering up the mixer on the back counter. The bell rang from the front door, signaling another customer. James did not see who it was, because he was bent over the ice cream cooler, scooping out of the large ice chest. All he could see was a cleanly kept crew cut of dark brown hair floating down one of the aisles, before the head of hair ducked down behind a shelf of borax and turpentine.

James then took those scoops and dumped them into the tin cup before jamming it under the mixer. The machine rattled loudly. There must have been a screw or two missing on the chrome nameplate that was strapped across the mixer’s head. Arthur began loudly and annoyingly flirting with Leona, loud enough to be heard over the racket of the mixer. Between quick glances, James thought that whatever he was saying to her, it must have been rather flattering, as even through the rouge on her cheeks, he could see her blush. It wasn’t before long that Arthur noticed these side glaces, and redirected his attention back to James.

“So, why are you stuck at this joint on a night like this, James? It is homecoming after all.” Art teased, sounding like James Cagney. He could almost hear Arthur say ‘You could go for an eighty year-old chick with rheumatism!” Suddenly, his tone changed to something between the previous teasing and sincerity.

“You know, you could’ve had a girl like Lea here,” then he knocked himself on his head in faux realization.

“Oh, no you couldn’t, ‘cause you’re not the captain of the football team, and you ain’t packin’ a pair a dese puppies.” He clapped his right hand on his left arm, which he flexed to prove his point. The neatly tailored tuxedo sleeve bowed outward in a rather grotesque shoe of strength.

James watched the display in front of him in side glances between checking on the shake. He flipped the machine off, and took the tin cup and the agitator, the former to put into a glass milkshake cup, and the latter to put in the sink.

“Come on! Come on! I’ven’t all afternoon, James. We can’t be late to the dance on account of you,” Art pressed, even though the milkshake was mere seconds from being finished. James sprayed the whipped cream on top, with the cherry to finish it off, and turned to serve the impatient meathead.

However, the radio, down low on the bottom shelf, had a different idea. The cloth-covered power cord, usually tightly tucked behind the shelf and taut to the outlet below, was loose due to a monthly cleaning that Jenkins had him carry out, and had wrapped itself around the front of James’ shoe. Down came the radio off the shelf, as well as James, who tripped and fell into the counter. His hands, along with their contents, flew forward towards the couple, and James’ face plummeted directly into the countertop.

Just as he picked his head off the counter, he could see the milkshake all down the front of Art and his tailored tuxedo, like someone is splashed with mud from a passing car on the side of the road. From the top of Art’s neatly pomaded hair to the cumberbun wrapped tightly around his waist, the football star was covered in thick iced cream. It almost looked deliberate, and perhaps, in the split second that the whole motion took, it was, as Stacy only seemed to have a few specks of it splashed onto her from her beau. The chatter had stopped from the other two couples and the familiar stranger, who now turned and looked at the sticky situation before their eyes. Only the voice of Ms. Etting could be heard, reverberating through the shop.

Like a cartoon character, Art wiped the shake from his face and shook it off of his hand. The chocolate ice cream had begun to soak into the shiny silk lapels and dripped from the faux pink carnation tucked in his buttonhole. He then turned his livid eyes towards the culprit, who stared slack jawed at the varsity athlete. James was caught in the snare of a look that sliced through steel.

In an instant, Art’s hands flew up to James’ lapels, snatching them tight and pulling them hard up and closer, yanking the frightened James into the counter. The tin milkshake cup slipped from James’ hand and clattered to the ground, punctuating the sound of the music echoing through the store like a neon sign on the side of a desolate highway. Dots of bright crimson blood began to form on his white work coat, dribbling from the bloodied nose that was smashed onto the counter. The needle on the record drifted into the playout groove before lifting and turning itself off with a click. The store was now dead silent, making the blood rushing in James’ ears all the more deafening

“You sonuvabitch just couldn’t see anotha’ guy have a good time, could ya?” Art sneered, spittle flying out of his mouth, punctuating his diatribe with a stiff jerk to the lapels that brought James off of his feet each time. “You lousy, no-good, pansy bastard!”

For a moment that only lasted an instant but which felt like minutes were slowly ticking by, James was nearly pulled nose-to-nose with the angry behemoth. The wide chestnut-colored eyes of Art’s seemed to inspect every nook, every cranny of James’ visage, both physical and emotional. It was as if an entire crowd of people suddenly stopped their daily lives to simply watch you, inspect you.

The squeaking of a swinging door ended the torturous scene for James, as the behemoth looked to see its source. “You better get outta here, you punk!” Jenkins shouted, shaking his cane in futility while rounding the corner of the counter, limited by his lame leg and, eventually, the emphysema. By this time the other two couples had dropped what they were doing and walked up to the counter and tried to quietly convince Art to drop him. However, they were hushed as the mysterious man from before approached Art. He stood behind him and cleared his throat.

“Drop him,” he said in the same tone a hunter would speak to their dog in. Art turned a little, still clutching the lapels of James’ coat and pulling him even further over the counter.

“Who the hell do you think you are? This little poof’s guardian angel? I’m so touched.” Art said sarcastically, turning back to the task at hand.

“I said drop him!” he repeated, this time louder and more stern.

“Alright,” said Art, “you win. I’ll drop the little bastard.” He did just that, and James nearly fell fully over the counter before pulling himself back over it. But he remained where he stood when the whole incident started, bolted to the floor, not only in fear for himself, but fear for this stranger. He had seen in the past what one punch from the chowder-fed footballer was able to do to someone, and it was not pretty in the slightest.

Art turned around, his hands up either side of his face, like he was a gangster getting busted by Elliot Ness. He even had the smug look on his face, like he was just playing along, knowing he would face no consequences for any of this. The stranger remained unphased, his cool blue eyes staring lances directly into Art’s chocolate-stained. Art even seemed taken aback. Nobody in a long while had been this defiant towards him.

“Whaddya itching for a fight?” Art shouted, then chuckled, “‘cause I’ll give ya a fight!”

Art quickly reeled backwards, twisting his body clockwise as he clenched his right hand into a fist. Just as quickly as he reeled back, he sent it flying towards the stranger’s jaw. James had already seen this scene before. A couple of kids at school got this treatment before, and one of them spent a week and a half with his jaw wired shut because of it.

But this was different. The stranger reacted just as quickly as Art in launching that punch. Dropping his left foot back, he ducked out of the way of the incoming fist, spinning his left arm around to catch it in a motion reminiscent of waving goodbye. Art’s fist flew past the stranger’s forearm, but was stopped short of connecting with his body. His left hand snatched Art’s wrist, his fingers white with effort, and he pulled the surprised bully towards him. At the same time, the stranger had sent his own express package hurling towards the now open-mouthed Art.

James was sure that the dull thwack that sounded when the fist connected with the bridge of Art’s nose was louder than it actually was. Art was knocked back into the counter, his head flicking backwards as he did. Then, he dropped to the floor like a duffle bag of wet laundry, landing on his backside against the counter, blood dripping onto his white ribbed tuxedo shirt from the freshly broken nose.

Immediately, Stacy and the other two couples rushed over to Art, trying to talk to him in his dazed state. They all noticeably kept giving the stranger sideways glances, both out of anger for their felled leader, but also out of fear that he would come for them next. The stranger, however, seemed to not pay the group any mind, simply turning away from them and making for the exit.

“Uh, thank ye kindly, stranger!” Jenkins piped up over the hushed chittering of the footballers and their girls. The stranger made a backwards, half-hearted wave, all without turning back, and exited the store, turning to the right and towards the waterfront. It was by this point that Art was lifted back onto his feet by a combined effort of all five of his party members, and was ushered quickly out of the store.

The entire time, James remained still. His nose had just begun to clot up, finished with ruining his white work shirt. Tears that had been forming in the corners of his eyes slowly began to run their way down his cheeks, dropping with his jerky breathing erratically onto the ruined shirt. Jenkins approached him, and James finally tore his eyes away from the doors, and focused on the old man.

“James,” he said softly, “are you alright?”

Snapped back into the moment, James attempted to compose himself. He stole a glance of the clock on the wall.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he said, his voice still quivering, “only got another hour anyhow!” He tried to sound cheerful as he dipped his rag into the bucket of water and began to sloppily clean up the mess. Distracted by his mind, he made the mess much worse, spreading around the chocolate and ice cream slurry and dripping it onto the floor.

“I can clean this up, James,” Jenkins offered, proffering his hand for the rag. James looked into the old man’s face. Through the dark wrinkles and creases of his face and past the thick coke-bottle lenses, the weathered face offered a sympathy matched only by his grandmother. James sighed, looked down, and dropped the wet rag into his hand.

“Go take the rest of the night off, wash up, get some fresh air. I won’t dock your pay.” he said..

“But…” James whimpered, his still bloody nose forcing him to breath through his mouth.

“That’s an order, James. I’ve got this.”

Slowly, James untied his apron and balled it up in his hands, making his way to the back of the store. A little water and a bar of Ivory soap seemed to do the trick for his face, and he looked presentable. At least, presentable enough so that his mother wouldn’t ask him any questions about it. He took off his work hat and uniform, hanging the former neatly on the peg near the door to the storefront and tossing the latter into the wastebasket. Grabbing his overcoat and wool cap, he made his way towards the alley door.

On the way out, he passed the mirror mounted to the wall above the sink, the same one he washed his face not three minutes ago. He could not bear to look himself in the eyes while washing. However, now he stopped and looked at himself, looked through himself, beyond the mask he wore, the mask that was cracked hard tonight. There he was, just like he always was, just like he was this morning. The same hair, the same teeth, the same ears. The only difference was the blood on his face and the look in his eyes. He felt like he looked different. Was it obvious, he thought. Could everybody tell?

He could feel the tears welling back up, and he tried to hold them back until he escaped to the alley behind the shop. The cool late afternoon air greeted the wetness on his cheeks. Checking both ways down the slowly darkening alley, he saw nobody to violate his privacy. Nobody to hurt him again.

After moving an ashtray, James sat down on the milkcrate left there by Mr. Jenkins for his smoke breaks and he let everything out. The tears streamed down his face, with some dripping onto his handkerchief and the rest falling to the dusty pavement below. His crying and sniffling prevented him from hearing the footsteps approach him from behind. James heard the shoes click against the ground too late.

“Hey there” the voice called, a voice that James recognized as the stranger, a voice that sounded confident, but soothing. Not too nasally, not too precise, just naturally, tenor speech. It was comforting “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” James said softly after regaining enough composure to speak properly, “Th-thanks for getting that… that…” he stammered, “asshole out of there.” By this point the man had walked in front of him and pulled one of the other milk crates over.

“Not a problem. Really pisses me off to see guys, ‘specially meatheads like that, bully nice, well-meaning people” he said, opening up the pack of bubble gum he concealed within his pocket, “I only came in for a damned pop, ya know, not a fight.”

James looked up towards the stranger, then quickly turned back away. The thought that this guy, a stranger, had to stand up for a yellow-bellied coward like himself was too much for James, and he broke down again, leaning forward, elbows crossed on his knees.

The sobs hung in the still evening air. The passing rumble of a truck sputtered in the distance. The stranger lingered still, quietly chewing his bubble gum. “So, James - it’s James, right?” the stranger asked, his voice cutting through the silence in the alley.. James nodded his head erratically, and the stranger continued, placing a hand on James’ shoulder.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” James asked, breaking down a little bit, “You didn’t have to go and break Art’s nose like that, it’s just gonna cause more problems down the line.”

“I don’t think he’s going to be messing with you again any time soon,” the stranger said, doing his best to try and calm James down.

“Why? Because I’m the little coward who had to let some stranger protect him?” James angrily retorted, “I should be able to protect myself.” He turned away, facing his back to the stranger.

“Doug,” he said.

“What?” James asked, confused as to who the hell Doug was.

“Doug,” he repeated. “My name is Doug.”

James raised his head up from his arms and twisted back around in his seat to see the handsome stranger, like a bad cliche from one of those Zane Grey novels his dad liked to read, looking at him with a big cheesy smile, his hand outstretched and waiting for a handshake.

Chuckling at the absurdity of the whole interaction, James took the handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you, Doug,” James said, a little lilt to his words, his mouth curling up into the smallest of smiles.

“How do you do, James,” Doug responded, chuckling at the end of his line. They both laughed.

#Be Sure It's True #original story #story writing #original fiction #gay love #romance #historical romance

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