Spaghetti Blues (my submission to Firewords)

The following was my submission for the Firewords short story competition. The instructions can be read here: https://www.writersandartists.co.uk/competitions/firewords-quarterly-writing-competition

The stories by the 2 winners and first runner-up can be read here:

https://www.writersandartists.co.uk/2016/12/firewords-competition-and-the-winner-is

And the 10 finalists are listed here:

https://www.writersandartists.co.uk/2016/11/firewords-competition-shortlist-announced

Please note that the illustration shown on the 2nd and 3rd pages is only a slice of the original (which served as the prompt), which is shown in full at the first link. It is important to point that out, because my entry doesn't make much sense if you only see the sliced version of the painting.

The stories were to be a maximum of 1,000 words long. Mine is - if you discount the title - exactly that. (Less, if you use Open Office' word count.)

Spaghetti Blues

Billy Bob Swaggart unloaded his two rifles – each in its camouflage-canvas bag – from the back of George McCready’s station wagon, as well as his army-green duffel bag.

"See you, George, and thanks for the lift,” he shouted over the noise of the stinkpot motor and his slamming of the tailgate. You had to slam it hard or it wouldn’t catch and would bounce back down: beware if any part of you was in its way!

"Don’t forget Wednesday night’s at my place this week,” called out George as Billy Bob was heading up his driveway.

More poker, more chance to lose some money, thought Billy Bob. They hadn’t actually done any hunting this weekend. It had rained solid for the two days, and none of the four men was that much of a hunting fan to sit in the pouring rain for a chance to pop away at a few ducks. So they’d sat around in the damp hunting lodge and played poker for two days instead. As always, Billy Bob had lost steadily, but, hey, it wasn’t the winning or losing that was important: it was having fun with your buddies. He and George, Dick Wallenberg, and Sammy Greene went back a long way. He and George had gone to Hell and back together.

To tell the truth (and speaking of Hell), he’d had enough of rifles in Iraq. He’d be happy if he never saw another rifle for the rest of his life. (Though he’d never admit that to his buddies.) The hunting weekends were just an excuse to get away from Bobbie Sue and the kids for a while. A chance to forget the dead-end, no-future, going-nowhere, Jesus-God-awful boring job at the chemical plant, and the adult fights and children’s squabbles at home.

Under the terms of the GI Bill, he could have gone to college, paid for by Uncle Sam. But what college would have accepted him? Having your fees paid wasn’t enough: you had to have a head for studying. And Billy Bob had never had one of those.

Bobbie Sue’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She must have taken the kids somewhere (probably to her mother’s). Billy Bob’s car was at the mechanic’s. The garage was full of old furniture, winter tyres, and a workbench that he hadn’t used since he’d got back from Iraq.

Well, if nobody was home, he’d have to use the key hidden under the flowerpot. His key was in a pair of jeans at the bottom of the duffel bag.

But there was no key under the flowerpot, so he had to dig through a weekend’s sweaty, beery clothes to retrieve his own key. It was when he stepped through the front door that he got the BIG surprise. Wasn’t a stick of furniture in the whole living room! Moving quickly to the separating doorway, he found that the dining room was equally bare.

In a daze, he wandered from room to room. Aside from the cooker in the kitchen (heavy-duty and difficult to uncouple, not to mention move), the whole house was totally bereft of furnishings. Now that he thought about it, Bobbie Sue had always hated that cooker. It occurred to Billy Bob to phone her mother’s place, but chances were, the mother would answer. And he could do without THAT just now! Besides, Bobbie Sue appeared to have taken the phone; and his cell phone – like his car – was on the blink.

Hot damn! While he’d been using the hunting weekend as an excuse to escape from her and the kids, she’d been using it as a way to escape from him. And on a more lasting basis. JesusGoddamighty! What was he going to do without her? He didn’t hate her or anything like that. He just needed to get away with the guys now and then, let his hair down (a purely figurative expression, because his hair was about a quarter of an inch long), relax, chill…

He kinda missed the kids as well. Billy Bob junior, Chuck, and little Missy Beth.

Well, there’d be some way to work this all out. She couldn’t mean to stay away forever. Probably just needed some time to cool down from whatever was bugging her. Was it something that he’d said or done? He couldn’t think of anything right off. Nothing out of the ordinary. He’d stop by her mother’s after work tomorrow and get to the bottom of this. At least he had his sleeping bag with him. And Hell knows that he’d had to sleep on rougher ground in Iraq than a bedroom floor.

But first some chow. Of course she’d cleared him out on that score, as well, but there was that Chink grocery store not but 4 blocks away. And, hey, he could eat whatever he wanted. No restrictions from Bobbie Sue worrying about her figure (long after worrying could do any good) and nagging him about his. Lucky he’d taken his wallet hunting with him. Even luckier that the other three hadn’t managed to clean him out completely…

In the garage, among all his abandoned tools, he found a couple of dented pots which he’d used to keep nails and screws in. Way to go!

At the grocery, his eye fell on a package of blue cheese. And there it was! Problem solved. A six-pack of beer and a mess of spaghetti with blue-cheese sauce. That’d do him fine! Easy to fix, just needed a bit of flour and some milk, the cheese and a pack of spaghetti.

A mess of spaghetti was right! He made a mountain of the stuff. And then he realised that he hadn’t thought about cutlery. Not a fork or spoon in the place… only a bag of dinky little plastic, two-tined cocktail forks. As if they’d ever thrown a cocktail party!

Trying to twist a strand of gooey, cheesy spaghetti with one of these, the handle broke short…

"JesusGoddamighty!”