Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy I---Response
2nd post! Historical.:
Summary: Neal Gardener was a city child bred and born.
Rating: PG13 (Language)
Title: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy: Part I
Notes: Unbetaed. Unedited. But I just needed it out
Neal lay back in the plush velvet seat of the train, flicking a strand of hair out of his dusty grey eyes. There were virtually no other passengers on the 4:30 to Wednesbury, Staffordshire, so he basked in the syrupy afternoon sunlight, lazily stretched over three seats, hair slopped lazily over a be-freckled forehead thumbing through a very worn out copy of Murder on The Orient Express. According to his mother Neal was yet another child caught beneath the wheels of an unfair and unjust educational system, which cared little for the poor souls of the children who were subjected to their torturous rituals. According to Neal’s father Neal was a lazy ass who deserved a good beating, not that, Neal thought his father ever would. A mechanic who had longed to be an overseas journalist. Yes pater, what a role model.
God. This really was terribly rotten. Neal kicked a jean-clad leg against the seat opposite him. Pure rottenness. It was all down to maths in the end, math was all logic. Wretched logic and stupid rules, that was all math was. Gods above. Where was the imagination? The creativity! He was quite sure he could have been a genius if he’d not been forced to take the subject of Satan from a young age. Talk about stifling your intelligence, talk about trying to oppress the masses. And of course, Mrs. Harridan had been the worst.
Flunking him-In his last year. When he should have escaped this godforskaken island for better things. If it weren’t for the bitch he’d probably have his first play on broadway. Mia cara. What was her problem. Never gotten laid had been Chris’s opinion, snidely whispered around a big fat cig, but of course that was Chris’s answer to anything. Got acne? Simon my man, you really need to get laid.
Of course the closest Chris had ever gotten was probably stealing a quick look at the magazines under his brother’s bed. Though, he did have a leather jacket. However, the admittedly super effects of a leather jacket were undoubtedly counteracted by the man’s spots. Neal to his great relief had gotten that terrible phase of his life over before the age of 12. It was not an experience he cared to repeat.
The train reached the station at Wednesbury in the early hours of darkness when Neal, jamming the paperback into his back pocket struggled mightily with his enormous suit case and rolled it with great difficulty out onto the platform. The platform, lit by a street lamp overhead was completely devoid of human life, except for 40 year old man smoking a cig dispassionately in the ticket collectors booth. Occasionally the man would twiddle a knob on a beat up radio. Christ. What a dump. Neal wandered off to the left where the sign that said “Exit” seemed against all physical laws to be pointing in two opposite directions.
People have said many things of the night sky in the country, poets have compared it to black velvet across which someone has sprinkled fairy dust hither and thither. Writers and dreamers have theorized that the stars are really the teardrops of the Sand Giant as he lays weeping by a black pool; crying in agony for his lost wife. The stinking harlot. The fact remains that while the night may be as black as the night a 17 year old boy, especially one, who, as Neal was in the furthest stages of starvation is not the best person to appreciate it.
So Neal merely peered at it in the slightly scornful way of the city born and wondered why they didn’t get themselves some decent lighting. As he reflected on this all important issue someone tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped around, startled to find another boy, about his age with a mop of red hair and the sort of eager pleading expression of one who had been the bullies’ favorite chew toy since as long as he could remember. The boy tipped his head to the left regarding Neal quizzically, “You Neal?” He asked nervously.
Neal raised an eyebrow sardonically and stuck out a hand, “Gardener actually, Neal Gardener”
The boy looked puzzled for a second before he keyed into the meaning of the hand and then shook it heartily. “I’m James, James Platt. Pleased to meet you”
Neal just nodded his head. The amiable look on James’s face didn’t even flicker, “I’m staying here over the summer, I’m the recruit, I’m staying at your Aunt Georgia’s house. She sent me to come and fetch you.”
Neal vaguely remembered Aunt Georgia as a heartily grim woman, who took pleasure in telling him off for sneaking sweets while his mother wasn’t looking. “How kind of her, I’m sure”
“Yes, it is isn’t it?” James nodded cheerfully, “She’s frightfully nice, your Aunt. Always lets me have two helpings of breakfast and everything”
“Two helpings. What a martyr” Neal commented, as they trudged down the street. Was it possible to be that dull? He doubted it. The man deserved a prize.
Summary: Neal Gardener was a city child bred and born.
Rating: PG13 (Language)
Title: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy: Part I
Notes: Unbetaed. Unedited. But I just needed it out
Neal lay back in the plush velvet seat of the train, flicking a strand of hair out of his dusty grey eyes. There were virtually no other passengers on the 4:30 to Wednesbury, Staffordshire, so he basked in the syrupy afternoon sunlight, lazily stretched over three seats, hair slopped lazily over a be-freckled forehead thumbing through a very worn out copy of Murder on The Orient Express. According to his mother Neal was yet another child caught beneath the wheels of an unfair and unjust educational system, which cared little for the poor souls of the children who were subjected to their torturous rituals. According to Neal’s father Neal was a lazy ass who deserved a good beating, not that, Neal thought his father ever would. A mechanic who had longed to be an overseas journalist. Yes pater, what a role model.
God. This really was terribly rotten. Neal kicked a jean-clad leg against the seat opposite him. Pure rottenness. It was all down to maths in the end, math was all logic. Wretched logic and stupid rules, that was all math was. Gods above. Where was the imagination? The creativity! He was quite sure he could have been a genius if he’d not been forced to take the subject of Satan from a young age. Talk about stifling your intelligence, talk about trying to oppress the masses. And of course, Mrs. Harridan had been the worst.
Flunking him-In his last year. When he should have escaped this godforskaken island for better things. If it weren’t for the bitch he’d probably have his first play on broadway. Mia cara. What was her problem. Never gotten laid had been Chris’s opinion, snidely whispered around a big fat cig, but of course that was Chris’s answer to anything. Got acne? Simon my man, you really need to get laid.
Of course the closest Chris had ever gotten was probably stealing a quick look at the magazines under his brother’s bed. Though, he did have a leather jacket. However, the admittedly super effects of a leather jacket were undoubtedly counteracted by the man’s spots. Neal to his great relief had gotten that terrible phase of his life over before the age of 12. It was not an experience he cared to repeat.
The train reached the station at Wednesbury in the early hours of darkness when Neal, jamming the paperback into his back pocket struggled mightily with his enormous suit case and rolled it with great difficulty out onto the platform. The platform, lit by a street lamp overhead was completely devoid of human life, except for 40 year old man smoking a cig dispassionately in the ticket collectors booth. Occasionally the man would twiddle a knob on a beat up radio. Christ. What a dump. Neal wandered off to the left where the sign that said “Exit” seemed against all physical laws to be pointing in two opposite directions.
People have said many things of the night sky in the country, poets have compared it to black velvet across which someone has sprinkled fairy dust hither and thither. Writers and dreamers have theorized that the stars are really the teardrops of the Sand Giant as he lays weeping by a black pool; crying in agony for his lost wife. The stinking harlot. The fact remains that while the night may be as black as the night a 17 year old boy, especially one, who, as Neal was in the furthest stages of starvation is not the best person to appreciate it.
So Neal merely peered at it in the slightly scornful way of the city born and wondered why they didn’t get themselves some decent lighting. As he reflected on this all important issue someone tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped around, startled to find another boy, about his age with a mop of red hair and the sort of eager pleading expression of one who had been the bullies’ favorite chew toy since as long as he could remember. The boy tipped his head to the left regarding Neal quizzically, “You Neal?” He asked nervously.
Neal raised an eyebrow sardonically and stuck out a hand, “Gardener actually, Neal Gardener”
The boy looked puzzled for a second before he keyed into the meaning of the hand and then shook it heartily. “I’m James, James Platt. Pleased to meet you”
Neal just nodded his head. The amiable look on James’s face didn’t even flicker, “I’m staying here over the summer, I’m the recruit, I’m staying at your Aunt Georgia’s house. She sent me to come and fetch you.”
Neal vaguely remembered Aunt Georgia as a heartily grim woman, who took pleasure in telling him off for sneaking sweets while his mother wasn’t looking. “How kind of her, I’m sure”
“Yes, it is isn’t it?” James nodded cheerfully, “She’s frightfully nice, your Aunt. Always lets me have two helpings of breakfast and everything”
“Two helpings. What a martyr” Neal commented, as they trudged down the street. Was it possible to be that dull? He doubted it. The man deserved a prize.