Our Time: An Experimental Work-In-Progress
 

So I've been working on and off for a few years on a slice-of-life, coming of age story that centers around two young adults and their road trip during a summer break. I'm not sure where exactly it's going, but I do want to finish it. I figured I could post it up and let people comment and critique it as they please. It's nowhere near perfect, but it is my baby, and I'd like to at least do it some half-decent justice.

Please bear in mind that there is some coarse language ahead, and teenage shenannigans. I'm trying to keep it as realistic as possible.

That being said, I hope you all enjoy! I'll be posting up chapters as I make them. <3


CHAPTER 1: Proposition
CHAPTER 2: Schism

----------

Chapter 1: Proposition

Summer for Francine Desmond meant that finally, the orange, creamsicle-colored Vespa sitting patiently in the garage could be reunited with the daylight. After long months of hibernation, its metal practically freezing over with the cold, it was able to run wild and free in the streets, the young woman its wheelman. Its solid pastel coloring against its silver trim looked delicious, as if it could melt in the hot noon day.

People in the sleepy Northeastern town were not accustomed to any vehicle that didn’t resemble a mini-van or Cavalier. The annual “breaking in” of Francine’s Vespa included a trip into town, leisurely cruising Main Street so that all of the children would point in astonishment, their safety-conscious mothers objecting to their innocently curious inquiries. Her helmet rainbowed with holographic stickers from supermarket gumball machines, each to represent a different place or experience from her travels (she particularly liked the Mickey Mouse that she’d acquired after witnessing a transvestite perform pop songs in a pharmacy parking lot.)

After another leisurely spin around the neighboring block, the young woman parked in a driveway that was not her own. It was quaint, suggesting residence of a soccer mom, daisies climbing up the sidewalk to a neatly painted white porch. Random and vividly colored toddler toys were strewn about the small yard. It was a picturesque vision of the “Wholesome American Home.” As far as Francine was concerned, it was home to a wholesome American family as well, and one of the nicest she knew. She removed her helmet and placed it on the seat of the Vespa, taking time to fluff out her naturally curly hair. It was burnt bark in tint, and complimented her dark brown eyes nicely. There was a faint hint of freckling to her face that she hoped would be brought out more as the summer progressed.

She strolled up to the front door of the house and knocked without hesitation. A moment’s pause brought about the startled noise of a dog – a small one, from the sound of the high and energetic pitch to its bark – and footsteps drawing near. The door was answered by a young man, perhaps a couple of years older than Francine. He had a strong case of raven stubble to his face, his mop of short black hair sticking this way and that. He was tall and lean, and a pair of glasses perched his hawk-like nose, allowing gray eyes to see better than they could on their own.

“The Government sent me,” the Vespa-driving woman said. Her tone was urgent and very serious, “They tell me you’ve stolen their self-wiping ass tissue prototype from the premises. I’ve been requested to confiscate it.”

The young man blinked once, his expression vague and unimpressed, and closed the door. Francine frowned. Again, she knocked.

“Sir, if you don’t come back out here, I’m afraid I’m going to have to administer this warrant I had signed to grant the permission of kicking your ass!” Her tone had nearly grown sing-song.

After another moment passed, the door practically flew open, the same young man now standing, posed firmly, a large super soaker in his arms. He pumped it slowly.

“Better back off the porch, bitch. I’m not handing shit over.”

“Oh, shit!” No sooner had the words escaped her lips than Desmond was greeted by a blast of cold water. She shouted in surprise, cursing at him, fleeing to the opposite side of the street, “Vincent Hall, you are a genuine, all-purpose arse!”

The one Francine had called Vincent laughed victoriously, holding the water gun in the air as if he were a valiant warrior claiming his win on the battle ground.

“That ass-kicking warrant’s looking really good right now!” Francine called after him, shaking her arms of excess water. It was becoming hard for her to stifle the laughter that tickled her throat.

“Thank God for little cousins, eh? Haven’t played with one of these since I was ten,” Vincent said, shooting a bullet of water into the air. It curved and dropped to the sidewalk, leaving small, dark circles where it fell. Assuming that it was now safe, Francine made her way back to the curb across the street, grinning wide.

“So, you gonna let a poor, drenched Government lady in from the cold and rain?” she asked.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If she has cookies.”

“Just let me in, jackass.”



“So, I have a proposition for you.” Francine’s voice was a dull, thoughtful rasp.

“A proposition?” Vincent parroted the phrase quietly, his small cousin sleeping next to him on the living room sofa. The other sat on the floor at his feet, entranced by a re-run of Sesame Street on the television. By the looks of them, the small boys easily passed off as twins, with sandy blonde hair and chipmunk cheeks.

Francine, who had flopped lazily in the armchair nearby and was getting it damper by the minute, took a sip of her coffee and elaborated on her plans, “Well, you know how I’ve been saving up to go on a road trip.”

“For the past two years.”

“Yes. Shut up and let me finish. As I was saying, I plan on taking a trip over the course of this summer. Now, since you’re my favorite person ever, I wanted to know if you’d…kinda wanna…come with me?”

The young man looked to his cousins, then back to Francine, “Aunty Bea asked me to take care of Al and Patrick for the summer on weekdays. Mom’s got to work during the day, and dad works nights now.” There was a hint of melancholy to his words, but he handled his bad fortune like a man.

“I thought not,” the woman said, curling a stray lock of spiraling hair behind an ear, “I wouldn’t want you cramping my style anyway.” She sat her mug down on the coffee table, a smile curving and growing impish on her full lips.

“What. Your shiny helmet and your orange motor-bike?” Vincent’s smile mirrored her own. As if out of nowhere, Francine seemed to grow offended by this.

“I have to go,” she said dryly, “some of us have more important things to do than rip on people. I have to pack.” She’d made her way to the door, but turned as she slipped on her sneakers, “I’ll see you in about a month or so. Try not to be such a bastard anymore, alright?”

She crossed the front yard and snatched up her helmet, swinging a leg over the seat of her Vespa as she tightened the strap under her chin.

Vincent watched her from the porch, the Sesame Street twin’s interest piqued from the argument between the two, peeking out from behind the doorframe.

“Give me the night to think it over,” the black-haired man called to her.

Francine didn’t miss a beat, “You’ve had enough time to think about a great deal, Hall.” She started the vehicle up and slowly backed out of the driveway, “You need to suck it up and stop pushing me away.”

With that, she pushed off of the ground, the Vespa growling low as it carried her off to dinner.



That evening brought about a packed suitcase between a supper of spaghetti and pre-bedtime small talk. Francine’s mother did her tedious speech about how the young woman should keep her wits about her on the road, not to hitch any rides if the Vespa breaks down; the same routine that any mother would pull if their baby bird started to wander too close to the nest’s edge. To please her, Francine simply nodded, a series of ‘I know’s grumbling up sarcastically from her throat. In all reality, she did know. She was quite capable for someone her age. There would be nothing more than back and main roads taken, and she knew how lecherous some men (and women, for that matter) could be. She had packed clothes, books, money, and a few other odds and ends. Her travel belongings now sat at her door, waiting patiently to be taken on a new journey. A potpourri of fears and excitements were welling up in her mind. It would be the first time the young woman would be traveling so far from home – on her own, no less. And as persistent as thoughts usually are, Francine’s clung mercilessly to her mind, even as she drifted off to sleep.



Plink. Plink…plink.

Fucking June bugs, Francine thought, turning lazily onto her other side.

Plink…plink!

Something was tapping obnoxiously at her window. In a fit, the woman whipped the bed sheets nearly clean off of the bed, struggling to a sit. She rubbed her tired eyes, mewing her distress as more taps bounced off of her window. It was dark, save for a small, faint light that hazed the glass just above the sill. Francine squinted curiously, scratching her shaggy bed head. She swung her legs over, feet touching down to the tan carpet below.

…Plink.

It was as if whatever the instigator was had roused her from her sleep, beckoning her to greet it. To appease it, she dragged her feet to the window, pushing it open to see what had been causing such a ruckus.

“Hey! Mornin’, sunshine,” a voice called cheerily. Francine was puzzled, still half-asleep. “I thought about that proposition again. Still have room for one more on your little voyage into the unknown?”

“Vincent? The hell are you doing here at four in the morning?” she croaked. It was really only two in the morning.

“I want to come with you,” said Vincent. “My aunt agreed to a babysitter for the twins while I’m gone.”

“I…what?” Francine rubbed an eye again, “Vincent…it’s four in the morning.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to miss you tomorrow. Do you think that I could still come along with you?”

It was an awkward scene of Romeo and Juliet that unfurled more and more with every hasty word spoken: a seemingly caffinated Romeo, bothering his Juliet to reconsider her earlier offer. He would occasionally balance on the balls of his feet before placing them firmly back on the ground. She could do nothing but stand there, blinking excessively in an attempt to wake up.

“Vincent, you know I’d be happy if you came, but why four in the morning?”

“Because I enjoy bothering you. It’s only two, by the way,” Vincent finally said. He donned his familiar pirate smile, hand in his pocket. The other shone a flashlight against the side of the house for illumination.

“Whatever. Just pack and be ready by ten in the morning, alright?” Francine leaned against the windowsill tiredly to hold herself up.

“You got it, boss. Ten it is.” The smile on Vincent Hall’s face grew wider.

“Good. Now, some of us sleep at this hour, so I think I’m gonna go back to doing just that.” She smiled faintly after a loud yawn, “You get some sleep too, kapische?”

The man nodded, saluting his “commander.” He then turned on a heel and hurried off, the ray from the flashlight bouncing along with him.



The morning came sooner than later, and Francine wasted no time in finishing breakfast so that she could take time to fasten the side car to her pastel orange freedom. It was big enough to seat another, with a small trunk in the back for luggage. She decided to strap hers to the rear of the Vespa. All of this had been done in her pajamas, and so the young woman rushed inside to dress and get ready. She decided on jeans and a t-shirt for the day, with her hair tired back into a messy ponytail. It frizzed wildly at the scalp from early day humidity. Still, she was satisfied enough to leave the house. She parted from her mother with kisses and hugs, and started off to pick up her traveling partner.

It wasn’t long before she found herself in the familiar driveway of the Hall family. Vincent was as awake as ever, sitting on the front steps of the white porch. He rolled his small suitcase out to the Vespa, pausing abruptly. He made a face, “Uh…you’re taking the side car?”

“Unless you’d rather be pulled around on a skateboard,” Francine replied, taking his luggage for him. She popped the trunk of the small car, tossing it in carelessly, “I hope you plan on doing some driving, too.”

“I will, I will!” Vincent winced at the thud and crunch of his bag being closed into the trunk, “Jeez, Francie. Way to go with the mailman attitude there.”

“Great, ain’t it?” She giggled, hopping back onto the vehicle, “Shall we? Your helmet’s right here in the seat.” She pointed to the brown, aviator-esque helmet in the side car. Vincent reluctantly fastened it on his head as he hopped into his seat and looked over to his friend. She was grinning wide as the Vespa growled back to life. “Very nice. Very becoming on you.”

“Well yours isn’t a picnic eith—” Vincent was caught short and jerked forward in his seat as Francine backed the Vespa out.

“Okay. Stop being negative. This is our vacation.” The small motor bike hummed down the road and the early morning breeze was cool and crisp. In a way, it felt strange to Francine. It felt new. Vincent was smiling and had leaned back in his seat.

“So, where are we headed?” he asked.

Francine’s eyes were trained intently on the road, “I have no idea.” She was unsure and thrilled about what lay ahead in the days to come, “That’s what makes it an adventure.”



It was barely one in the afternoon when the two young adults pulled into a rather quaint-looking town. They had both been running on a large appetite for miles, and voted (unanimously) on stopping for lunch. A greasy spoon was open around the outskirts of Waynesborough – the town, as Vincent discovered from a sign outside of a library – and it looked suitable for a quick burger or fries to share.

“Rock star parking,” said Francine, and she pulled into a spot that was very close to the entrance of the diner. It had a fifties feel to its exterior that matched the inside with posters of Marilyn Monroe and waitresses in poodle skirts. Francine and Vincent seated themselves. The dark haired young man picked up a laminated sheet that had been placed on their table. He gave it a look over once and read off its contents.

“Specials of the day,” he began, adjusting his glasses, “Chili cheese nachos grande…onion burger deluxe, with fries…I think I might gnaw upon this Philly cheese steak. Comes with a chocolate malt.”

“That does sound good, but I think I’ll stick with a cheese burger. I can always sneak pieces of steak from yours,” Francine grinned coyly.

Hall pointed his fork at her, “I am armed and dangerous.” He waggled it threateningly before he set it back down.

A blonde waitress with a ribboned ponytail strode to their table. She looked eerily like she’d just danced out of Grease; perhaps a very sweet, teenage Sandy.

“Can I start you two off with something to drink, or do you know what you’d like?” She had a slight southern drawl to her words. Her eyes set on Francine as if her question was directed to the brunette.

“I'd like a cheeseburger and an orange soda, please,” the Vespa girl replied. Sandy scribbled in her notepad.

“And you, sir?”

“Oh, I'll have the Philly cheese steak deluxe, with a chocolate shake.” Vincent handed the menu to the waitress, who thanked them and scurried off. Thus, the two were left to themselves and their table.

“So I didn't get to ask you how your school year went,” Vincent piped up.

Francine had begun analyzing the principals her fork had in common with a catapult. She pushed down the prongs repeatedly, causing the handle to flick up in a spontaneous fashion. “I was sick for the better half of a month and they almost failed me,” she said.

“Sick with what?” Vincent watched her fiddle with the mini catapult.

“I got mono and had to stay home for a couple of weeks, for fear of my organs turning into liquefied shit. So the doctor made me stay home and Anne—you know Anne—brought my homework and took care of me. She even went online and bought me those awesome little Japanese melon breads I love.”

Sandy brought over their drinks in two large glasses, complete with bendy straws. Francine got a kick out of how the waitress had even put a little orange slice on the brim of her glass for show.

“You know, I hate how people call mono ‘the kissing disease.’ People are always like, ‘Who ya been kissing?’ and I’m like, ‘Your mother!’ Seriously, do they take me for a hooker?” The young woman stirred her orange drink with her straw.

“Well, if you’re involved with their mother…”

Francine perked suddenly, “Oh, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Vincent asked.

“I thought I heard the faint sound of an asshole, spewing shit.”

Vincent stared on at her. Then, in one fluid motion, he seized her drink as his own and slurped down half of it with ease. Francine made a sound at him, a sort of whimpering that teetered somewhere between the void of surprise and sadness. This was, of course, avenged when she stole his drink and soon the beverages they had ordered were vice-versa. As a peace offering, the young man let his companion have her beloved orange slice, which she happily accepted.

Lunch for them was typical of any greasy spoon; not extravagant, but still quite tasty, and they ate their own food at a leisurely pace (only sneaking a French fry or steak strip when the urge arose.) There was no need to rush it. They had the whole day ahead of them. The whole month.



Their travels that afternoon had lead them along the countryside, painted with farms and mills and, as Vincent had to continuously point out, cows. The back roads were winding, but pretty, and so the two rarely had a complaint about their ride. However, Francine Desmond was not the type to keep secrets.

“Eh. Vincent? I think we’re lost.” She glanced over at the young man, “Check the map, will you? I marked the path we’re taking.”

Hall slipped a large square of paper, folded thick, from between the seat. He unraveled it and layed it flat against his lap. His finger danced along the multicolored paths and routes as he clicked his tongue against his teeth in thought.

“I think we have to turn back a ways, back to the crossroads near that church.”

“That was twenty minutes back, at least,” Francine uttered, checking her rear-view mirror. “I don’t know if we have enough gas either. See if there’s a town nearby?”

Vincent’s nose dove back into the map, dipping up again after a moment, “No. Closest is if we turn back, passed that church. Ten miles passed that.”

The young woman cursed under her breath. “We’ll have to see if there’s a gas station up this way first,” she said, “I feel like such an asshole, we should’ve filled up after lunch.

“I think I’m going to go against gender rules and say we stop for directions. Look. There’s a little farmer’s market or something right up there.”

Francine squinted in the direction her companion had pointed. Sure enough, a shoddy looking establishment had been erected near a crimson barn. Behind them both lay what was probably the land off of which the market prospered. Francine and Vincent and their orange Vespa puttered to a stop in the dirt-stomped driveway.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” said Vincent. He tugged off his helmet and clambered out, “There’s a sign that says it’s open, though. Should we go in?”

Francine crinkled a freckled nose in thought, “I do like veggies…we could get something for dinner at least.” She held her Mardi Gras of a helmet at her hip.

The door to the place was splintered, weathered and barely served as a door at all. Still, they made their way inside. There was an earthy scent to the place, most likely provided by the stacks of fresh fruits and vegetables that lined crates and boxes on several different types of tables. There was a small counter in the back, with a cash register, and another door with a checkered curtain veiling the threshold.

“Wonder where the owner is,” Francine uttered. She piped up, “Hello? Anyone home?”

Something faint called from the back of the shack, sounding something along the lines of, “Juuuust a minute!” The rest was indecipherable.

A moment or so later and a man as rickety as the market itself bumbled through the curtained doorway. In his arms he carried another crateful of corn. He lugged it to the counter, taking a moment to wheeze and catch his breath.

“Y’alright, sir?” Vincent wandered over to him, “Can I help you with anything?”

“Yeh…” the man wheezed. He took another deep breath, “Yeh can take that over yonder near the potatoes…whew!” He placed his hands on his back and gave it a stretch, “That’s it, over there…kind lad, kind lad.”

“We actually came to ask for directions, but my friend here also wanted to pick up some vegetables for dinner,” said Vincent.

“Francine Desmond, sir.” The young woman shook the old man’s hand, and thumbed over a shoulder, “He’s Vincent Hall.”

“Pleased to meet’che both,” the man replied. He seemed to have finally found his breath again, “Name’s Roger. Roger Williams.”

“Likewise, mister Williams.” Francine decided to cut small talk and get straight to the meat and potatoes, “Our vespa is nearly out of gas, and we don’t really know this area very well. We were wondering if you could tell us where the nearest station was.”

The old man rubbed at his chin, frothy with white stubble, “Well, let’s see…closest I know of is that’n back a ways, passed Saint Mary’s. How low on gas are ye?”

“Pretty low. I don’t know if we’d be able to make it,” said Francine.

“I could walk there,” Vincent piped.

“No you won’t,” the girl scoffed, “you can barely walk to the fridge without your beloved bike.”

“Now, wait a minute, hold yer horses.” Roger had been busying himself with unpacking his wares, setting the ears of corn on top of one another, making mini pyramids. He paused in his work to look at the two, “I’d be happy to take you two into town. Y’all got a car I could tow?” He peered out into the parking lot, “…What in the world is that?”

“The Vespa? It’s a GTS 250. I painted it orange myself, along with the side car,” Desmond explained. The old man rubbed the back of his neck.

“Eh…ain’t seen one of them before. Maybe I have. Gettin’ senile in my old age. I guess the color took me by surprise, too,” Roger mumbled. He straightened, “Well. You kids pick out what vegetables you’d like, and I’ll pack ‘em up for ye and take you into town. Least that Vesper’ll be easy enough to tow in.”

“They’ve been around for quite a while. You must have seen one before…yes, Vincent, corn and tomatoes sound good,” the young woman eyed her companion, who weighed an ear of corn and a tomato in his hands, “We’ll take a few ears of corn and four tomatoes.”

“That corn’s definitely been good this year. The tomatoes, too. How’s three dollars sound for the lot of it?” Roger Williams pulled a pair of paper bags from beneath the counter. Wrinkled and worn, they looked as old as he did, “Well, I don’t want to pry, but where you two headin’?”

“Down south. Just to see what we can see, pretty much,” Vincent said.

“D’ahhh, youth. Seein’ what you can see while you’re young. I hope you kids have a good time, a real good time. We never had all the things you do these days. Used to be that all we had was the creek and muh dad playin' banjo for us. Now you have yer motorbikes and computers and space man music."

Francine looked puzzled, "Space man music?"

"Yeah. With all them machine sounds."

"Techno?" Vincent chimed. He'd been quite the fan of techno, when he wasn't indulging in his collection of ska.

"Techno, space man music. Don't make a difference to an ol' man like me." He arranged the corn and tomatoes in their own separate paper bags. He placed them gently on top of one another, taking great care in the packaging. "I'll tell you somethin', though. I'll tell you, I seen some pretty odd things while I lived down south. Some things you kids these days wouldn't even dream about if you tried."

"Such as?" Francine leaned in. Being brought up on a steady diet of fairy tales and urban legends, she was curious.

The man rolled one brown bag's opening over on itself for a small, makeshift handle, "They got some pretty places down south, yessiree. Some of them star-makers and dream-dragons." The two "young'uns" both seemed befuddled at this point. Of course, he was a befuddling old man. He could see the expression on the two and heaved a sigh, mimicking his bag-rolling mastery on the other paper bag.

"Listen good, you two...them dream-dragons are a dangerous lot. Sneakin' into people's dreams when they're asleep and foolin' as they please. One minute you're in a forest full'a lollipops and the next them lollipops are trying to eat you."

"I've never heard of dragons having that ability," Vincent trailed off, pondering the tale.

"Like I been sayin', you kids couldn't dream about it if you tried." The man paused, and mused, "O'course, that could jes' be the dream-dragons takin'em dreams away." He traded the trio of dollars that Francine handed him for the bags of produce, “Thank you two. Can’t seem to keep them veggies on their shelves! Now. How about we get you two fixed up and take you into town?”

“You’re very kind, sir. Thank you so much for helping us,” Francine replied.

The Vespa was tiny, and so it was easy enough to hitch onto the back of Roger Williams’ brown truck. The old man said that he hoped the pair wouldn’t
mind having to ride in the back, as half of the front seat was cluttered with ‘Lord only knows what.’ Francine didn’t mind. She’d always liked the wind in her hair. Vincent said something about her having enough wind to go around, which earned him a smack upside the head.

It was a pleasant summer eve’s drive for all three of them. Fifteen minutes brought Vincent and Francine into the loving arms of a Sunoco, where they fueled the Vespa to full. They bought a box of matches as well, and a newspaper.

“Are there any campgrounds around here, mister Williams?” Vincent inquired. The old man squinted in thought, eyeing the horizon beyond the concrete and a pair of towering billboards.

“Well, there’s a horse trail near here. They have a little place you two could spend the night. ‘Course, there’s a motel just a few miles down the road that a ways.”

“Feh,” Francine waved a dismissive hand, “what fun is there in having an adventure if you cling to the traces of civilization as we know it?”

The old man couldn’t help but chuckle, “That’s a fire, right there, that you shouldn’t lose. Hold on to that, Miss Desmond.” He hauled his old bones back into his truck, “Miss Desmond, Mister Hall, you two have a hell of a time on your trip. If you ever need more veggies, or tales for that matter, muh door’s always open.” He slammed the rickety door shut, ignition sputtering into action. It rolled, and bumbled its way out to the road with a honk, bidding the two young souls and their Vespa adieu.