RVA Magazine is proud to present an excerpt from the forthcoming second novel by James Wayland, Dirty Southside Jam. This blackly humorous rural crime novel takes place in the tiny town of Bogut, VA, where two local losers stumble onto a big score that quickly threatens to destroy them. Wayland who is from rural Virginia, knows the land of which he writes. He is also the author of Trailer Park Trash & Vampires, a delightfully gory vampire slasher that features excellent illustrations from RVA artist Chris Visions. Wayland is currently raising money to release Dirty Southside Jam through a Kickstarter campaign, which has just over a week remaining. You can contribute to the Kickstarter by clicking here. In the meantime, if you're curious about what you'll be getting if you order a copy of Dirty Southside Jam, we can satisfy your curiosity right now by offering a section excerpted from Chapter One. As this excerpt begins, main character Billie "Blue" Boyd is driving home after working the closing shift at the local movie theater....
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The sky above was speckled with twinkling stars and the breeze was gentle. It was a nice night for September. Blue drove with his window down, listening to a cassette tape he had purchased at the flea market for a dollar a few weeks ago. It was the timeless Outlandos D’Amour from The Police, a bargain at any price, and Blue was quickly wearing it out.
He was only a few miles down the road when he spotted David Blanchard walking along the side of the road with his olive bag slung across his shoulder. David was an old salt who had pulled three tours in ‘Nam after earning a reputation for running moonshine in these hills as a teenager. Folks around here knew who he was, and most felt he was a good enough guy.
The current sheriff, a chubby prick named Arthur Leopold III, didn’t share that opinion. He had been sheriff for nearly a decade, and his daddy had held the post before him. Some time before that, his grandfather had been sheriff, too. However, his grandfather’s time in office was cut short in a gruesome accident on McClusky Lane. The first Arthur Leopold was chasing a young David Blanchard at the time.
When Leopold Sr. came into a sharp turn running hot and didn’t have the mustard to bring his good old Ford around, he slammed into a tree at something like 70 miles per hour and was pitched head first through the windshield. His hat was found some sixty 60 feet from his body.
And so it was no secret that the current sheriff despised the old vagrant, and surely there were those who didn’t blame him, though in a place like Bogut, most of the populace preferred a man who ran moonshine to a man sporting a tin star.
Blue didn’t think much of Leopold, but then he didn’t think much of any of the authority figures he had dealt with. In his opinion, most people who were given any small measure of power stopped thinking things through and began acting on impulse. David, on the other hand, was all right as far as Blue was concerned. He had given the old vet a ride on several occasions, and the dude sometimes smoked him out in return for the trip.
Blue pulled the Tercel to the side of the road and waited as David opened the passenger door and climbed into the car. They shook hands and Blue asked the old drifter where he was going.
“Nowhere in particular,” David said.
“That’s one of my favorite destinations.” Blue put his foot on the gas and Martha rumbled ahead, slicing through the night. David settled back in his seat, stretching his legs, making himself comfortable.
Blue found his mind slipping toward the past again, taking him to another episode from his youth that involved the wretched road they were travelling down. The man sitting beside him was also a player in this memory.
When he was a kid, long before anyone ever called him anything but Billie, he had invited a friend over to spend the night. This was when he and his family lived on a dirt road just off of McClusky Lane. Billie and his friend had decided to go for a walk, and soon they were walking along McClusky Lane, approaching the boat ramp and enjoying the nice day as they went. They were talking about comic books when a weaving truck sped by.
Suddenly the truck slid to a stop, pelting them with gravel. A stocky old man with a silver crewcut and a scraggly white beard lurched out, barreling toward them with a club in his hand.
“Did you give me the finger, boy?” he bellowed as he advanced, his eyeballs swelling in their sockets until it appeared they would burst.
It occurred to Billie later that they should have run. Though imposing, the madman was old and built for power, not speed. They could have eluded him with ease, but foolish children that they were, they had stood there, frozen in the grip of terror. Blue and his pal Randy were practically rooted to the ground as the stranger approached with his barbaric weapon, his pupils so big they looked like black checkers to the frightened boys.
“Huh? Did you? Did you flip me off, son?”
Billie didn’t know if the man was addressing him or Randy, but neither had made any gesture whatsoever.
“We didn’t do anything, mister,” Billie mumbled.
“Bullshit, brat! I’ll teach you to give me the damn finger.”
He was poised to strike when David Blanchard came out of nowhere, calmly approaching this roaring menace with his arms before him and his palms facing outward. Billie would never forget the way the drifter looked on that day--his black hair pulled back into a ponytail, his beard thick and unruly, his worn combat jacket providing a stark contrast to his red flannel shirt.
“It’s okay,” David said in a soothing voice, almost as though he were dealing with an animal. “We have a misunderstanding here, man, that’s all. Let’s make sure no one gets hurt.”
The man with the club sneered, but he lowered the club. “Who are you?”
“I’m no one,” David said flatly, “No one at all.”
“The fuck did you come from?”
“Nowhere,” David said in a soft tone. “It doesn’t matter. Everything’s cool.”
Billie felt sure that if the surly man with the club made the wrong move, David was going to tear him to pieces. There was nothing in the vet’s manner or stance to suggest this ferocity, but young Billie sensed it lurking just beneath the surface.
In the end, nothing happened. David talked things out with the man, and the old nutjob actually apologized before leaving. Billie and Randy were quick to depart as well, thanking David and setting off with quite the tale.
It had been a long time since Blue thought about that incident, but it passed through his thoughts as his trusty car raced through the darkness, with David Blanchard riding shotgun. The strip of pavement framed in the glare of his headlights was as a grey blur churning beneath them.
He suddenly felt the need to discuss the episode. “When I was a child,” he began, “I was attacked by a man with a club-“
“I remember,” David interrupted, a tired voice emitting from somewhere within his tangled mess of a beard. His thick unruly hair hung about his shoulders, his grey locks frayed and dirty from a lack of grooming. “Never could figure why the two of you didn’t just run.”
“You knew that was me?”
David smiled and took a joint from his pocket, lighting it with a devilish grin. The aroma of marijuana, tantalizingly sweet and unmistakably pungent, filled the Tercel. “Of course I knew it was you, boy. The real question is: what did that crazy old bugger have a club for? Really now, who carries a club?” The old drifter shook his head and laughed.
Blue was surprised. They had never discussed anything of great importance before, but this acknowledgement seemed to suggest a far deeper bond than Blue had imagined. What was his value to this strange old bird?
After several deep drags on the joint and few rattling coughs, David passed the joint to Blue. Blue raised it to his lips and inhaled deeply. Almost at once, the warmth spread through him and his body began to relax. The Police were still tearing it up in Martha’s cassette player, and the old stoner took note.
“This is back when The Police were the shit,” David said, smiling as he lost himself in the music. “They had their own sound. I suppose it was only a matter of time before one of the guys got uppity. I just never imagined it would have been Sting.” The old drifter laughed. He took the joint from Blue and took two big hits in rapid succession before continuing. “I mean, who would have thought? What are the chances of a guy named Sting having an ego? Especially if he’s a revelation on bass and he’s got a pair of pipes fit for an angel.”
Blue felt the need to say something, but he didn’t know what he could possibly offer. “I’m really enjoying this album,” he said. He was clearly out of his depth.
David pressed on. “Truly gifted. But he never did anything to rival this one. Or maybe Regatta De Blanc. That’s the one with “Message in a Bottle.” Nothing in his solo career could touch The Police. They had their own sound, man.”
“You already said that,” Blue said, wishing he hadn’t.
“Well, maybe I said it twice because I wanted to make sure you got the point. I mean, a man driving around with Outlandos D’Amour in his tape player should understand these things. The Police weren’t some addition to some scene, man. They were a scene. They had their own thing going. You dig?”
“I get it. I got it. I’m the one who bought the cassette tape. I’m listening to it, aren’t I?”
“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. You may be listening to The Police, but you aren’t hearing The Police. Not yet, anyway.”
An uneasy silence followed, broken only by Martha’s steady hum and The Police tearing through “Next To You.” Before long, Blue’s mind drifted to the past again, taking him back to that strange episode on the side of the road. “Why-“ he began, but that nasty stretch of road the locals referred to as old 79 didn’t allow him to finish his question.
Later, Blue would be unable to recall what he was going to ask. In fact, he would remember little of what had transpired leading up to the accident. That gentle moment before the storm was lost forever in the glare of headlights and the scream of burning rubber. For the second time in his life, Blue was part of the dance as steel met steel and flesh collided with machinery in a pulverizing display of power. He screamed as he was thrown forward, his wail drowned out by a metallic squeal that filled the night.
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For more of this tale, order yourself a copy of Dirty Southside Jam by contibuting at least $10 to James Wayland's Kickstarter. Here's that link again, and tell him RVA Mag sent you.