by Joyce Armor
I Remember You
Joyce Armor
I Remember You
Copyright 2018 Joyce Armor
Smashwords Edition
Cover: Vila Design
Trusty Reader: Chris Gale
Expert Formatting: Jesse Gordon
I Remember You
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are purely fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
“Have you lost your friggin’ mind?”
“You can’t stay here. You don’t do crazy.”
Ellie Lambert looked at her two friends and smiled. Maybe she had expected them to understand, to support her decision, but it didn’t matter. Not much, anyway. She had had an epiphany. Her mind was made up.
Sometimes life changes on a dime, she realized. You’re plodding along in one direction and poof! You’re headed somewhere totally different, like Robert Frost’s two roads diverged, and this damn well was not going to be the road not taken. It might be a death, a birth, a divorce, a revelation or, like now, a crazy epiphany. You might be in the right place at the wrong time or the wrong place at the right time. Or just maybe, if the planets align, you might be in the right place at the right time. Of course, if you’re human, it might take you awhile to realize this. So then maybe life changes on a quarter. Or even on a fifty-cent piece. Do they even make those anymore?
“Starting today maybe I do do crazy. I’ll be fine,” she told her friends, and she knew she would be.
Ellie Lambert’s life had seen its share of changes, but not the kind that gave her whiplash, except when her father died. She came from a good, if not overly demonstrative, family, with only a few slightly neurotic members, including herself. She followed the traditional path of making friends, making mistakes, graduating from high school and college. She met great people and a few not-so-great people along the way and made decent grades. Then she foundered a bit, not finding a job in her field of communications. That was rather ironic, she thought, she since she was obviously having trouble communicating with prospective employers or they would have hired her.
A little voice in her head that she not so originally named Head Voice pointed out she wasn’t really all that interested in the field of communications. It wasn’t her life’s dream, but she had to major in something. She tried to ignore that pesky little voice. She had a degree and she needed a job. The die was cast. Or was it?
On a whim, at the age of 23 and temporarily—she sincerely hoped—camping at home, she traveled from Chicago to Las Vegas with those unsupportive college girlfriends. One of those spontaneous road trips when the young shuck their relatively few responsibilities to enjoy “one last fling,” and a little out of character for her. She was typically a planner, not a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants type. The friends had a ball, chatting about anything and everything on the long drive to Vegas, especially what was wrong with men. Ellie was a little more enthusiastic on this subject than the others, as both her friends were in committed relationships and she was still smarting over a betrayal and nasty breakup.
In Las Vegas, the three young women attended the Celine Dion show and several lounge shows. They also floated in the Palazzo pool while sipping piña coladas and played a few slot machines. They walked the Strip, stopping in to admire different casinos and shops, and played a little 21. They enjoyed shrimp cocktails and other more potent cocktails. As busy as they were, the trip also gave Ellie time to do some serious soul searching.
When her tanned, sated and committed friends left to return home to Chicago a week after they arrived, steady, predictable Ellie stayed behind. It was a momentous, earth-shattering decision that she could hardly explain, much to her friends’ shock and dismay. Her parents weren’t exactly thrilled either. At least her mother wasn’t. Her stepfather Dale didn’t venture an opinion, not to her anyway. She had suddenly realized if she didn’t leave Chicago then, she might never leave. And she needed to leave. She needed to fly. It just felt right, no matter what anyone said. It was scary and it was exhilarating. It felt like it was meant to be.
Ellie rented a little studio apartment off the Strip with the graduation money she had socked away and took a job as a change girl in a small casino, not exactly what her folks had in mind when they paid for her private college education. But she knew this move was just a stepping stone to better things. She was quickly promoted to bartender—alas, also not her parents’ dream come true—and made good money, probably more than she’d be making if she had snagged that entry-level job in communications. She also made new friends and slogged through some memorable—not in a good way—dates.
There was Chuckie, who thought it was funny that his parents had named him after a cinematic psycho doll. In fact, Chuckie thought just about everything was funny, including other people’s embarrassment or pain. That’s when Ellie said b-bye to Chuckie. Alan was nice enough but just kind of blah. Brent thought much more of himself than she ever would. But there was one guy…yeah, that didn’t work out either. Where’s a superhero when you need one?
She kept busy, working, hanging with friends and haphazardly looking for communications jobs. Her life was fine. It was good. Okay, that might be a little overly optimistic. In reality, she had this nagging feeling that her life was happening to her rather than she was attacking it with gusto. Again. She hated the word “proactive”; it sounded too much like “laxative.” Yet she recognized that that’s what her life needed: proaction, whether that was a word or not. It needed some decisive action, some movement, like her original plan not to return to Chicago with her friends. Staying in Las Vegas when her bff’s left had freed her. She knew, deep in her soul, she could make it on her own. What a gift.
Two months later, Ellie Lambert was working for an underground comix publisher in Bella Casa, California. In another holding pattern. Or was she?
Chapter 1
“Who knows what passion lurks in the hearts and…and…and in the minds of men and especially women? Muskman knows! How was that?”
“Way too wimpy,” Ellie Lambert mumbled to herself as she emerged from the packing area at the back of the funky warehouse to the front offices of Full Court Press. The voice was drifting down from the conference room upstairs, where her boss, Roger Neff, was interviewing Muskman wannabes.
Heading for a massive, strategically-placed floor fan with a couple of lime green streamers fluttering in the wind, she bopped the full-size cardboard cut-out of Muskman on her way by. The counterculture’s answer to Superman, Batman and other comic icons, he was a hairy, caped superhero with a rodent body and human face.
Ellie stood at the gi
ant fan and spread her arms to let the air flow up her pink jersey top sleeves to her pits.
After several moments, she looked around to make sure no one was coming, then lifted up her top to air out her stomach and perky (just ask her) breasts. Merciful heaven, the air felt wonderful there. She smiled contentedly as it also blew her caramel-blond bangs away from her face.
Now, if it would only blow a few freckles off your face.
It was an amusing thought, not a bitter one. Why it couldn’t be a more sophisticated, more glamorous face she had come to terms with long ago. There were worse things than being terminally cute. She could have incurable hives. Or no teeth. Or be in a loveless marriage. So what if her brother’s friend Chad, the guy she had pined over all through high school, was the first of many men who had patted her on the head instead of lusting after her. She should have a groove in her head by now from all the patting. Chad had long since married a leggy brunette with big bucks and bigger boobs. The perfect couple, they had three perfect children who lived in their perfect split-level house in a perfect little suburb. At least everything looked perfect. Who wanted that kind of stress?
Ellie wasn’t model statuesque. She was more average in height, but she did feel fairly proportionate. That had to count for something. She was not beautiful; she was the proverbial girl-next-door cute. It was her cross to bear. At the age of 28, she thought, on sweltering days like this, that she was cut out for nobler things than acting as a glorified secretary for an underground comic book publisher. She did have a college degree, after all. In communications, her evil inner voice said, which qualifies you for nothing. Or everything, as her wise grandmother once pointed out.
But she liked the offbeat people she worked for and with at Full Court Press and had to work somewhere, so why not here, where she could dress casually and chaw tobacco if she wanted to? Which she didn’t. She had just turned around to get some air on her back when the phone rang.
As she passed Roger’s cluttered work station across from the weathered stairwell with its peeling gray paint, she glanced at the underground comic posters on the wall touting the wonders of the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers; Zippy the Pinhead; and Cherry, an X-rated takeoff on Archie and Veronica. She really was cut out for nobler things.
She reached her desk, snatched up the phone and hit the lit button. “Full Court Press. Ellie,” she intoned methodically. “Yes. Uh-huh. No, the last issue of ‘Dip Stick’ came out in…” She ran her finger down a chart on the wall…“1991.” She absently looked through a stack of invoices as she listened to the caller. “Uh-huh. That would be…number seven. Yes, in about three weeks. You’re welcome.”
She hung up the phone and cringed as she heard the squeaky voice of another Muskman hopeful resonating down the stairwell. Shaking her head, she retraced her steps to the packing room, where floor-to-ceiling shelving on three walls held hundreds of issues of comic books, graphic novels and assorted DVDs, posters and novelty items. The latter category included a wind-up penis that could scoot across a table or the floor and a button that proclaimed the wearer “God’s gift to inflatable women.”
If her conservative parents could see her now, wouldn’t they have a cow? She glanced at the hundreds of t-shirts in various colors and sizes hanging on a long rack against the fourth wall. The warehouse wasn’t automated; it wasn’t state of the art. In some ways, it was like stepping back in time, and for some reason she seemed to fit in with this less than automated system and these less than conservative people. Maybe that was her problem; she was a throwback.
Before she joined Full Court Press, ironically warehoused in the rather straight-laced northern California community of Bella Casa, Ellie had never even heard of underground comix. That was comix with an “x,” she quickly learned, because of the uncensored nature of the beast, which sprung up in the hippie-dippy ‘60s and early ‘70s.
The comix, filled with social commentary, counterculture Cheech and Chong-type drug humor, sex and sometimes violence, were still popular with a varied group of fans of all ages. They appreciated the artwork, the satire and/or the subject matter. While Ellie did enjoy much of the artwork, most of it wasn’t great literature or even particularly well written. She wouldn’t consider herself a fan. However, she wasn’t a prude and didn’t get embarrassed by “Horny Biker Sluts,” “Leather Nun” or other alternative underground comix stories and characters. In some weird way, she almost felt like she was getting away with something or accomplishing something important, guarding freedom of the press in this little hole-in-the-wall warehouse that most of the local community didn’t know existed. A few years ago, she would have been one of those ignorant Bella Casans. Or would that be Bella Casians?
At the packing table, long-haired, nose-ringed Wesley Gregory, a mature 22, was stacking boxes and gathering orders together to pack more. His girlfriend, Chantella Vann, 21 and very pretty in an ethereal kind of way, also wore a nose ring. Wearing something that looked suspiciously like a lacey black slip, as in young Madonnaesque attire, she was unpacking and hanging t-shirts. Today her hair was light blue, almost aqua. Short and semi-shaved, it seemed to change colors at least once a month.
If anyone ever walked to the beat of her own drum, it was Chantella. She was on the petite side and very attractive in her cutting-edge ensembles and unusual hairdos that Ellie would never have the courage to pull off. She couldn’t imagine Chantella would be any more beautiful with those high cheekbones, icy blue eyes and luscious lips if she were slightly less, uh, out there. She was also smart and opinionated and feisty.
Wesley emitted kind of an ‘80s rocker vibe, his shoulder-length wavy brown hair typically tied back with a leather thong. He was heavily into black leather and chains and was a handsome hunk, with a strong jaw, aquiline nose, dark chocolate brown eyes and eyelashes that were unfairly long for a guy. He was a cartoonist himself, focusing on knights and other medieval characters. He and Chantella seemed to always be dressing up and heading off to Renaissance Fairs.
After growing up in a sheltered environment, Ellie had thought more than once that Wesley and Chantella looked like the kind of people she would cross the street to avoid encountering if she didn’t know them. But in fact, they were one of the nicest couples she knew. Neither would probably ever be able to get a job in a bank, but Ellie wasn’t sure she’d want to do business with a bank that wouldn’t hire them. And come to think of it, she didn’t want to work in a bank either.
“Hey, Wesley,” Ellie said, “I forgot to ask you, did we ever get those t-shirts in from Toke Blokes?”
“Yeah, major retro,” he replied without looking up from his packing.
“Tie-dyed and way too bright,” Chantella added.
She held one up. They were colorful, all right. Oh well, one person’s art was another person’s “eeeyooo.”
“Yikes. What about the Maroon 5 DVDs?”
“Already on the shelf.”
Ellie was about to say something else when the sound of yet another Muskman wannabe echoed through the ceiling.
“Who knows what passion lurks in the hearts and…I mean the minds and hearts of…of men and women, especially. Muskman knows!”
“Oh, God, why doesn’t Roger just pick somebody?” Chantella grabbed a Santana DVD from a shelf and handed it to Wesley.
“Not just anyone can play Muskman, Chantella.” Then, in a deep voice, he added, “There was only man, part rodent, part cupid…
Chantella pretended to swoon. “Oh, Muskman, you are like mad chill. Do me…”
She fell into his arms.
Ellie laughed. “This is one of Roger’s stranger ideas, but maybe it’ll work out.” She lifted a ceramic blonde bombshell salt-and-pepper shaker from a shelf. The lady’s massive boobs were the salt and pepper. “Are you kidding me? How did I miss this? Where does Bonnie find this stuff?”
Wesley turned around. “Oh, they came in yesterday after you left.”
“I have to get one of these for my friend Toni. We
always try to give each other the tackiest gift we can find for Christmas. I think I’ll have her beat this year.”
“I’ll set one aside for you,” Wesley said.
“Thanks.” Ellie put the item, er, items, back on the shelf, shaking her head. “I’m leaving for lunch. Can one of you two muskies get the phone?”
“Sure,” Chantella said.
Ellie turned to go just as Roger, an aging, goateed, long-haired hippie in his 60s, approached, wearing his typical Hawaiian shirt, baggy khaki shorts and Birkenstocks. He was probably 20 or 30 pounds overweight, but it somehow looked good on him. He wasn’t flabby, and he had that kind of teddy bear thing going. With his wife, Bonnie, Roger owned Full Court Press. They had founded the underground comix publishing company in San Francisco in the ‘70s with artist and writer Spencer Keys, who became an icon in the industry, and Sludge Dupree. Spencer was the creative guy, Roger was the computer genius and Bonnie had the business smarts. Ellie wasn’t sure what Sludge did. She didn’t know much about him except that anytime Roger or Bonnie referred to Sludge, they sounded like they were about to hock. He obviously was no longer a friend. Roger and Bonnie had long since bought out the two partners, and Spencer had moved to France several years earlier. Sludge had started another publishing company in San Francisco.
Roger handed Ellie several dollars, looking hopeful. “Dove Bars?”
“Of course,” she said, taking the money. “Did you find Muskman?”
“Sigh.”
Rather than sighing, Roger always just said “sigh,” like a cartoon character. Ellie found it endearing.
“Don’t worry. You will.”
“The convention is next week, I’m sure you remember.”
“You could always cast the role when you get to Vegas. There must be lots of crazy…I mean highly talented…actors there.”