Jett’s Short Pulp Story – Excerpt from Jett

NOTE:  This short story is from the larger story of Jett.  This excerpt is  a short story written by the protagonist, Jett, for her Literature class.  She tells a more light hearted story of an incident which happened over the summer.  The incident itself was much more dangerous than Jett makes it out to be in her story.  Enjoy:

It started out a boring day of summer, but not for long. I was on my bike, riding my usual route from my summer karate class to my job when a group of boys confronted me. I say boys, but there were girls too. Girlfriends, sheep, or sycophants. It’s all the same. Me? I don’t have boyfriends. I ain’t nobody’s sheep and I do what I want. That’s how I live and it ain’t changing for no boy.
The boys were your typical popular kids who somehow parlayed their popularity into being bullies. Most of them were followers, looking for a brave leader to show them the path to glory on the gridiron, or diamond, or whatever other patch of grass they throw a ball around on in a vain attempt to prove their manhood. But these poor souls were misguided. They didn’t have a brave leader to show them the path to glory; they had Bob.
Bob wasn’t the strongest guy. He wasn’t the fastest guy. He surely wasn’t the smartest guy. He wasn’t the anythingest guy. He could throw a ball far, all kinds of balls, and apparently that earns a boy some status in this town. He could throw it far, but he wasn’t very good at getting it exactly where was supposed to go. But, the bar was low in this town and Bob’s ability to throw a ball far, combined with his dad’s bloated bank account and political ambitions, apparently buys a football team a quarterback in this town, or a baseball team a pitcher. I’m not sure what the going rate is for a quarterback, but there wasn’t much of a market by my estimate. Zero wins and Ten losses last year. Again, the bar is low in this town. Pep rallies were more like group therapy and cheerleaders weren’t cheering as much as they were pleading.
Anyway, I digress. These gridiron hapless heroes were blocking my path to get where I was going and they weren’t moving. “What’s up guys?” I asked as I came to a stop. There was no point in trying to run this blockade. I figured I could outsmart them instead.
“What’s up? We’re what’s up. We don’t like your attitude,” one of the boys said. It wasn’t Bob, but it was Joseph. He often spoke for Bob. I say that because Joseph isn’t smart enough to speak for himself. He couldn’t put two words together to form a coherent sentence if he was spotted the noun and given his choice of verbs. Joseph was the muscle, Bob was the brains. Did I mention the bar was low?
“I’m sorry guys. Did I do something that hurt your feelings?” I asked.
“No, you pissed us off though. And we’re gonna kick your ass now.” Joseph replied.
“Kick my ass? Didn’t you get your ass kicked enough on Friday nights last year?” I retorted. I knew it was a mistake, and I wanted to regret saying it, but it felt pretty good coming out. I smiled and said, “I’m just kidding. Sorta.” Oops I did it again.
“See, that’s the kind of stuff I’m talking about. Your attitude. We represent your school on Friday nights.”
“I didn’t vote for you. In fact, I demand a recount.” I retorted again.
“You have no respect for this team or us players,” Bob said, getting into my space.
“Neither do your opponents.” I said, without hesitating. This was too easy. Bob, though, was getting madder and clenched his fists in anger. Something was different about Bob. He was more intense than I remembered him from last semester. Nevertheless, even his girlfriend laughed at that one.
“And you. The karate kid,” Bob said, “Are we supposed to be afraid?”
“Of what?” I asked.
“That’s what I thought. Right now, you and I. You’re going to learn who the boss is here at this school.”
“I don’t want to fight you Bob. I was just riding to my job when you guys stopped me. You started it.”
“Yea. And we’re going to finish it.”
From my left one of the other kids, Rick, a grabbed me by the arm as Bob and Joseph started swinging at me. I managed to get out of Rick’s grasp and moved to my left, away from the other two boys and positioned Rick between us. I stepped forward when Rick lunged at me and then sidestepped, putting my arm up for protection. Rick missed me entirely and lost his balance, falling to the ground. Bob made his move before Rick could get up. I got into my defensive position and simply avoided Bob’s wild, erratic punches while moving away from the other boys, effectively isolating myself with Bob. It wasn’t hard. Bob was strong enough to do damage, and angry enough to lose control, but he was so angry that his punches were random with no focus. He simply flailed away at me with no coherent strategy. It wasn’t hard to maintain a position just to his left and simply block or stay out of his reach while he flailed away. It also made it easier to use Bob as a buffer to keep the other two boys from attacking me. I never threw punch. Didn’t need to. Eventually Bob ran out of breath and was bent over. His friends had given too up by then. We all stood there awkwardly for a moment and I said, “Are we done? I need to go to work.”
Before I could respond Joseph and Rick jumped me at the same time. I let my guard down, I got cocky, and now I was on the ground with two large, stupid oafs beating on me relentlessly. Bob caught his second wind and started kicking at me. That’s when something strange happened.
The girlfriend grabbed Bob and pulled him away. Then she pulled the other boys away with the help of her two friends. “You’re not supposed to fight girls!” she yelled at him, clearly angry. For that moment we were sisters united and there wasn’t anything the boys could do. They just stood there staring as I got up off the ground, with the help of the other girls. The girls then walked me to my job and told my boss what happened. She called my dad, and he came and picked me up.
I never talked to those girls about this when school started. I knew the score. We had our moment of triumph, but we weren’t going to be singing songs around a campfire or marching in any women’s rights marches together anytime soon. They made up with their boyfriends and life went on. They despised me, I tolerated them. Their boyfriends still wanted to beat me up but are a little more hesitant now. I learned two things that day:
Sometimes you can win a fight without throwing a single punch;
And I hate a bully.

Then End.
Jett Landry.

 

The Number

Based on a True Story:
There was a boy at a university. He was shy, awkward, lonely. All his friends had girlfriends, but he just hadn’t met anyone. Semesters went by, and he had a few dates here and there, but he still longed to meet that one girl that would be his college sweetheart. That’s all he really wanted. Not one-night stands, or nights of drunken, crazy sex; but just that one girl who would change everything.

Then he met her. He had a long break between classes. He saw her sitting alone in the Café in the Student Center. She was pretty, in a “plain Jane” kind of way, which is what he liked the most. She wore a pair of jeans, a blue sweat shirt and black framed glasses. Her long brown hair framed her face as she looked down at the book she was reading. She was curvy, maybe a little more so than the other girls, but she was perfect to him. He got up his nerve, walked over, and introduced himself.
“Hi. . .my name is. . .uh. . Steve. . May I join you?” he asked.
“Hello. . uh Steve. . .” she said, “I would love that. My name is Amy.”
She smiled and invited him to sit down. They had coffee together. He was thrilled at the attention this beautiful girl was giving him. She was smart. She had a beautiful smile and she used it often. She blushed at times, which was cute. They both talked and talked and talked. They both felt like they had known each other forever. They both said that they wanted to get to know each other more.
They went for a walk together. They held hands. The talked about anything and everything. They giggled. They sat on a bench outside of Building C and cuddled. His heart pounded almost out of his chest as she got close. His breathing sped up and he probably turned red. She didn’t seem to mind his awkwardness. In fact, she seemed thrilled by it. Then they kissed. Neither of them knows who kissed who first, maybe it was a tie. It didn’t matter. It was one of the most passionate and beautiful and awkward kisses in the history of the University. To this day the old timers still talk of this kiss. The perfect kiss between two lovers that would kick off a lifetime of perfect kisses. So perfect and raw. So innocent and awkward. So deep. He felt like something changed in him after he kissed her. In that moment after their first kiss he felt like he was finally complete. In his mind, he kept fast forwarding to many years later, when they would talk about this kiss to their kids and grandkids; when they would talk about the magic of love at first sight and of the first time they met. How she would slap him on the leg, laugh, and tell the kids how shy and awkward he was and how she had seen him so many times and just wished he would get up the nerve to talk to her in the University Café; and of the excitement she had to contain when he finally did. He entertained every corny romantic notion that a boy at University entertains when he meets the girl of his dreams. But not during the kiss. During the kiss, he was in a state of perfect zen. He felt every motion, every sensation, every breath. He felt the give and take as their mouths groped for each other. He felt the the softness of her lips, wetness of her tongue, and the coffee on her breath. He could remember the smell of her skin and the feel of her face against his. All of this he felt, and he could recall it in detail every day for the rest of his life.
She was late for class and had to go.  He pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote his name and telephone number on one side of the paper and she wrote her name and telephone number on the other side. He tore the paper in half and, while they kissed one more time, he placed one half of the paper in her soft hand. As she kissed him again, she stuffed her half of the paper in her purse, smiled, walked away and ran back and kissed him once more, and then ran to class. He stared at her running to class as he stuffed his half of the paper in his pocket.
“Call me tonight!” she yelled as she excitedly ran away.

He saw his friends later that afternoon. He told them all about Amy. His friends, who were usually encouraging him to find a girl to sleep with and nothing more, were different. They all encouraged him to call her that night, and were glad he found someone and that this seemed like the real thing. They told him to go slow, not to rush her into anything and to focus on having a relationship. For all their usual foolhardy playboy tendencies, they knew their friend was different. He was the serious type who deserved to have that special girlfriend. They never thought that much of themselves but they did of him, and they were all happy for him.
That night, after he got home from class, he ran straight for his phone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper. He unfolded it as he picked up the receiver and got ready to dial. His heart pounded at the excitement of calling her and planning their first date. A million thoughts flooded his mind at once. He almost put the phone down because he was so overwhelmed with emotion, but he persevered and put the phone to his ear, holding it with his shoulder, as he got ready to dial. He unfolded the paper and just stared at it for a what seemed like eternity. . .
Then he put the phone down, crushed with disappointment.
He never saw Amy again.

Many many years later, one failed marriage and too many martinis to count he found himself sitting at some bar somewhere contemplating his next move in life. Things kept going from bad to worse, then from worse to worse, and yet again he ended up alone. He had gone to visit his family recently and found an old box from college. Among all the old artifacts and pictures and awards was this small slip of paper, folded in half. He kept the paper. Now, sitting at that bar, wounded by what his life had become and struggling with yet another bout of depression, he pulled out the paper and stared at it again, just like he did when he was a boy at Univeristy. On the paper was written:

“Steve 867-5309”

The End