When Lyric Met Limerick (A Novelette)

by Dawn V Cahill



  WHEN LYRIC MET LIMERICK

 

  A Novelette

  By Dawn V. Cahill

  Special thanks to Brilliant Cut Editing

  ~and~

  Dineen Miller, cover designer

  To my sons ~ my joy and my inspiration

 

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without prior permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, settings, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright @ 2014 – Dawn V. Cahill

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  May 1983

  From the moment Howard McCreary spotted the Stevie Nicks lookalike, song lyrics materialized in his head.

  She’s a white cobra lady—

  She sat across the vast marketplace, frowning at something in front of her.

  Slitherin’ in my brain—

  He tried to resist her draw, but an unseen force drove him on. He was going over there to see what she found so all-fired compelling.

  He gestured to his friend, Nils Nelsson, who squinted in her direction.

  Hissing to me softly—

  “Where you going now?” Nils protested. “I think we ought to get out of here before that dude catches up to you.”

  Drivin’ me insane—

  Howard glanced behind him as they meandered among chattering browsers at Seattle’s Pike Place Market, past booths filled with rainbows of jewelry, colorful heaps of handmade clothing, walls of handcrafted knickknacks. A bushy-bearded guy in suspenders tooted his flute next to a man hawking rugs.

  No sign of the shopkeeper whose one remaining Jimi Hendrix tee was tucked securely under Howard’s jacket. His feet pivoted toward his prey. Nils followed with agitated steps. Beyond the westward windows, the sun hid behind a blanket of industrial gray clouds. The pristine Olympic Mountains sliced through the horizon like sails.

  The blonde woman’s booth consisted of a simple rustic table, with an equally rustic chair, set near a corner of the vast space. Howard’s gaze roamed the area for a clue as to what her special craft might be. A calligraphy sign dangled from scotch tape at the front of her table: Personalized limericks. In fifteen minutes or less. By Luna Rickles. $20.

  He stopped, shifting from one leg to the other. The young woman didn’t look up as she plied her craft. Her delicate hand fluttered over a five-by-seven piece of white construction paper. Lines of calligraphy flowed in bright blue ink. Several wooden calligraphy pens sat in a row to her right, and a pile of steel nibs glinted by her left. Three bottles of ink—blue, black, and red—rested open in front of her. Her tongue peeked out of the corner of her mouth as she worked, a furrow pinching her brow.

  When she finished the last line, she pulled up a small glue gun and deftly glued the finished product to a sturdy black cardboard frame. Setting aside her makeshift canvas, she tilted her head, golden hair spilling over her shoulder.

  “Oh, hey there.” Her voice trilled as sweet as Suspender Man’s flute. “You want a limerick?”

  “Uh, sure. Fifteen minutes, huh? How can you think up a limerick in fifteen minutes?”

  “It must be the Irish in me.” Her eyes…. They reminded him of the swirly, shimmering blue marbles he played with as a kid.

  “Takes me longer than that to write decent song lyrics.” He fingered the cardboard frame. “Mind if I check this out?”

  “Go for it.” She nodded. “The customer isn’t back yet.”

  He picked it up and read the fancy lettering aloud. Nils craned his neck and strained to see.

  “Who was he that caught the fine pass?

  Why, it was my son, Michael Tass.

  Although a beginner,

  He’s always a winner,

  And always the head of his class.”

  Howard chuckled, but jumped when a sharp movement caught his peripheral vision. A large man frowned down at him. With a guilty jolt, Howard set the canvas in place.

  “Hey, Mr. Tass.” The poetess blinked up at the big man. “Your son’s limerick is done. I hope he likes it.”

  Mr. Tass studied the canvas, and a grin broke across his face. “This is right on. If this doesn’t motivate him to keep his grades up, I don’t know what will. He loves his football, you know, but he won’t get to play if he lets his grades slip.”

  She smiled. “I hear you, Dad.”

  He handed her two twenties. “Here you go. Good work. Here’s a little extra for you.” He turned, and, clutching his prize, disappeared into the crowd.

  She slipped the bills into her pocket and pivoted toward Howard and Nils. “Ready?”

  Nils shook his head and pointed to Howard. “Not me.”

  Howard nodded.

  “Okay. Name?” Her mesmerizing eyes captured him.

  “Uh, Declan. D-E-C, um, L-A-N.”

  Nils snorted. She scribbled on a pad of paper in front of her.

  “Last name?”

  “Uh, Decker.”

  “Deck-er.” Her pen formed quick loops. “Your name is Irish.”

  “Yeah.”

  She appraised him, nodding as if she approved of what she saw. “You have that Black Irish look about you.” She dropped her gaze again. “What is your most favorite thing in all the world?”

  “Music. Rock music.”

  “And you’re a song writer—”

  “Trying to be.” He shifted and cracked his knuckles.

  “Why do you write songs?”

  “Because I have to. Why do you write limericks?”

  “Because I can.” A dimple peeked through her mask of concentration. “What kinds of songs do you write?”

  “Songs nobody else has come up with.” He swayed side to side. “Songs that’ll make me famous.”

  “Everybody wants to be famous.”

  “Yeah, but not everyone has the key.”

  She raised a brow. “Which is?”

  “Like I said, do something no one else has ever done.”

  “And your key to fame will be…?”

  “My music.” He cracked his knuckles again. “It’s unique. It’s messy.”

  “Messy?”

  “My songs are an organized, structured mess. Grungy, you know.”

  “Grungy.” She pursed her mouth. “An organized, structured mess. That’s an oxymoron, my friend.”

  “You calling me a moron?” When she rolled her eyes, he blurted, “Kidding. I know what the word means. I’m not a moron.”

  Nils guffawed. Luna surveyed Howard, her lips twitching, and then focused on the paper. “Okay, moving on. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Yellow.” Like her hair.

  “Second favorite?”

  “Red.”

  “Age?”

  He caught a twinkle in her eye. “Twenty-two. Why do you need to know?”

  “You never know.” She shrugged. “Be back here in fifteen minutes.” She set the pen down and smiled. With a start, he smiled back and waved as he and Nils sauntered off.

  “Declan Decker.” Nils scoffed. “Ha ha. I bet she thinks it’s your real name.”

  “Of course she does.”

  “Are you gonna ask her out?”

  Howard stared straight ahead. “Maybe.”

  “She’s gonna be mad when she finds out Declan Decker ain’t your real name.”

  “Maybe.” He rolled his shoulders. “Do you have a twenty?”

>   “You gotta be kidding. You make more money than I do.”

  Howard punched Nils. “I spent all my cash on them Motley Crue tickets.”

  “You expect me to give you a twenty so you can go check out that blonde babe some more?” Nils shot him an outraged glare. “Go bum it off someone else.”

  “Okay.” Howard rubbed his hands down his face and arranged his features in forlorn lines. With Nils in tow, he went in search of young mothers and senior citizens to wrangle up the twenty. Likely prospects were everywhere—gazing in merchandise-laden windows, emerging from shops with bags of souvenirs, picking their way down the slippery cobblestoned hill. He trotted out his standard spiel as he approached each one, taking care to avoid the tee-shirt shop where he’d pilfered merchandise.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, I lost my wallet. Can you spare a couple bucks so I can buy a birthday present for my mom?” He scored five from a young mom and another two from a kind-looking middle-aged couple.

  “Excuse me, sir, I lost my wallet, and I need a present for my sister. Could you by any chance spare a couple bucks?” He got three out of an elderly gentleman and three from a younger gentleman with a shiny leather briefcase, who acted like he was only shelling it out to get the panhandler out of his hair.

  At one point, Howard thought he glimpsed the angry shopkeeper in the crowd, and he grabbed Nils’s sleeve. “Let’s get out of here.” They hurried out of the market toward the street.

  The fish-and-diesel smell of Seattle’s waterfront hovered thick. Howard checked his watch and quickened his pace. He and Nils neared the fish tossers and stopped to observe the spectacle of sea creatures sailing through the air. Silver projectiles flew over and back, up and down, like a well-choreographed dance. He had all of fifteen dollars, including the two he came with. Already forty-five minutes had passed since he left the blue-eyed poetess, and his watch showed five thirty. Six o’clock, quitting time, fast approached, and he still needed five bucks.

  A quivering fish launched high as he crossed his fingers in hopes Luna would wait for him. The creature landed, wriggling and dancing, in the other merchant’s arms. Tourists always hung around this sidewalk with their cameras aimed at the flying fish. He scanned the nearby faces, and then nodded and approached a plump middle-aged woman clad in short slacks, a camera slung around her neck. Her shirt proclaimed she’d left her heart in San Francisco.

  “Hi, ma’am,” he said in his smoothest voice, trying to keep the desperation from showing. Nils stood by, smirk intact. “I was wondering if you could help me out.”

  The tourist cast him an annoyed glance.

  “I lost my wallet, and I need some help getting something to eat and a bus ticket home.”

  She stared hard at him. “Young man, does your mother know you’re doing this?”

  “Uh—”

  “My son is about your age, and I would be appalled if he had to beg like you’re doing.”

  Nils stepped up. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. He’s just been laid off.”

  She huffed. “I thought he lost his wallet.”

  “Well, that too.”

  The woman shook her head and reached in her pocket, jowls shaking. “I’m going to give you something, but only if you promise you’ll go home right now and never do this again.”

  “I promise. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “Oh, stop.” She handed him a crisp new twenty. “Now, go home.”

  Howard snatched the bill. “Thanks, ma’am. Enjoy your stay in the Emerald City.”

  As they raced into the marketplace, Nils laughed. “Way to sound like a tour guide.”

  Howard checked his watch again. “It’s five forty-five. She better still be there.”

  They neared her corner. No blonde poetess. He craned his head to the right, then to the left, before frowning at Nils. “Do you see her, buddy?”

  “You know I can’t see that far,” said Nils. “Didn’t bring my glasses.”

  Howard’s heart did a free-fall. “Man, she must’ve left already.” Merchants bustled, busily packing up their goods, disassembling their displays, counting their take for the day.

  He ambled toward her corner, kicking himself. Idiot. Why’d he take so long to round up twenty bucks? He probably could have talked her down to ten or fifteen.

  “Looking for me?” a sweet voice to his left called out. He lurched and nearly tilted off balance. The gleaming-haired poetess, brows in a frown, stood there, holding a box under her arm. “What took you so long?”

  “Uh, sorry.” His tongue tripped. “I was unaccountably delayed. I apologize.”

  “Well, here’s your limerick.” She set the box on the floor and reached in. The look she gave him held a good measure of reproach as she passed him a framed cardboard canvas covered in fancy red lettering. Nils squinted over his shoulder, and Howard muttered the words,

  “I’m Irish and Declan’s my name,

  “A seeker of fortune and fame.

  I’ll write you a song,

  It’s messy and long—

  For life without music is lame.”

  A funny feeling crept over him. There he was on paper, all five-foot-ten of him, in a red-ink, five-line nutshell.

  She smiled, looking pleased with herself.

  “You nailed me.” He grinned and gave her the twenty he’d finagled off the San Francisco-loving lady.

  “Thank you.” She pocketed the twenty.

  He couldn’t stop staring.

  She tilted her head. “What?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  She didn’t blink. “My boyfriend and I are going to see Return Of The Jedi.”

  He wouldn’t let that deter him. “How about next weekend?”

  Nils snickered.

  Luna rolled her eyes. “You know the Pacific Northwest Jazz Dance Competition?”

  Howard shook his head.

  “I’m competing in it. So I won’t be here.”

  “Where is it?”

  She smiled at him the way mothers smile at their toddlers who keep asking why. “Seattle Center. Why do you ask?”

  “Maybe I’ll drop by and watch. Can I walk you out?”

  “If you don’t mind a punch in the nose from my boyfriend.”

  He stood rooted to the spot, already looking forward to next weekend, as she glided away.

  A hand clamped onto his shoulder, and he whirled.

  “Hands in the air, young man.” When Howard reared back and raised his hands, a uniformed officer patted him down, then reached under Howard’s jacket, and pulled out the stolen tee shirt. Another cop grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back.

  Pain slashed his shoulders like a switchblade. Howard gasped.

  “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”

  Panic threatened to erupt. He tuned out and glared at the scowling shopkeeper behind the cop, then at Nils, making a swift getaway toward the exit.

  He cursed as the officer snapped handcuffs around his wrist with a decisive click. More curses spewed off his tongue as the cop hustled him past gawking shoppers, and again when the officer jammed him into the back of a patrol car. He shrank down in his seat while the car passed the blonde poetess strolling along the sidewalk hand-in-hand with some dude. And he cursed all the way to jail.

  Chapter Two

  A trip to jail, all due to a twenty-dollar collector’s item.

  Howard spent his first night behind bars on a cold, hard metal slab jutting from the wall. He shifted every which way in a vain effort to get warm and comfortable. His three other cellmates snored or wheezed, chasing sleep further away.

  When he’d arrived Saturday evening, they booked him and allowed him one phone call. Since his mom and her fourth husband were out of town for Memorial Day weekend, he’d called Nils.

  “I told you we needed to get out of there.” Nils cursed. “But you had to—”

  “Shut up.” He matched Nils’s curse with one of his
own. “Can you call my boss at Safeway tomorrow morning and tell him I was in an accident? And now I’m in the hospital?”

  “No way, dude. I’m not doing your dirty work.”

  “C’mon, be a pal. You want me to get fired?” He raised his voice over the shouting in the cellblock.

  “Not my problem.”

  “It will be when I run out of money for band equipment. I was gonna help you buy a new snare, remember? But if I get fired, I won’t have the dough.”

  Nils cleared his throat and mumbled another curse.

  “If you call my boss, we’ll go find you a new drum as soon as I get my next paycheck. Okay?”

  Nils exhaled. “You son of a—”

  “Thanks, dude. I owe you.” Howard slammed the phone down before Nils could change his mind. He growled to the deputy, “I want a lawyer.”

  The deputy didn’t look up from his Field & Stream. “Next Tuesday, kid.”

  He seethed as he plopped on the metal slab. Did his friends know where was? Had Nils told everyone? He pictured his band mates, laughing, chortling at his downfall. Mocking the would-be rock star at his lowest moment. How did long-term inmates handle this high-octane level of frustration chewing away at their spirits, day after dreary day? No wonder they came out worse off than when they went in.

  Dinner consisted of a chicken drumstick, which was more skin than meat, a bag of potato chips, and a carton of chocolate milk. He wolfed down the food, but a gnawing hunger remained.

  He was still sleepy the next morning when the breakfast cart came around. Shivering, he took the offered plate with feigned nonchalance, then dug his fist into his empty stomach to make it stop its incessant growling—a growling so intense it hurt. Wincing, he sat cross-legged on the slab and gobbled up his breakfast—greasy sausage, a single slice of toasted white bread, and a can of Tang-like orange drink.

  His jail-issued gray coverall smelled as foul as it looked. Over its left pocket, a white embroidered decal read “King County Corrections”—as if he’d forget where he was. He shifted, nearly choked. The reek wasn’t just the coverall. He’d opted out of showers rather than risk the torments rumored to occur in community showers.