La Cucaracha

Chapter 2 La Cucaracha

As Andy Foster made his way along Slide Road, sort of strolling, though he was supposed to be in a hurry, he could hear the faint sound of an Ice Cream truck in the distance. Barely loud enough to hear over the noise of the traffic along this busy street, he thought the tune was La Cucaracha. The Cockroach. This amused him, for just then he thought about that poem and the thought made him suddenly skip backwards in mock crawfish fashion.

As he did so, Andy caught the attention of a child in a stroller waiting at the bus stop along with, he assumed, the child's mother. The child giggled and as he did so, his mother turned to see what had so amused her child.

"What did you do?" the woman asked innocently.

Andy, feeling unusually frisky, repeated his act by kicking his right foot behind him, then push, push, pushing back using the tip of his right foot so as to cause his left to follow with a skip, skip, skip. The curious look on the woman's face made him realize how silly he must look so he felt the need to offer an explanation. "I was imitating a crawfish."

"A crawfish," the woman responded flatly.

"Yep. A crawfish. You know, those little red things that look like mini lobsters."

"I know what a crawfish is, but why were you doing your little crawfish dance?"

Dance. Andy hadn't quite thought of it like that. The sound of the ice cream truck grew louder. The Cockroach was gettin closer. He suddenly wondered aloud, "How do you suppose one might go about dancing like a cockroach?"

This struck the woman as particularly odd and she began to become noticeably nervous. "Are you like an actor or something? You know, preparing for a part?" she asked with a hopeful tone.

Realizing that he needed to expound on the explanation, Andy said, "I was just...well, you see...I read this poem this morning about a crawfish and a cockroach, then I heard that Ice Cream truck," he pointed and looked in the direction where he thought the truck was located, "and this little dance as you called it sort of happened."

"You're talking about the one in the paper this morning," she said.

"You read it too?"

"Yea. I thought it was cute," then she kicked her right foot behind her as if to mock Andy's Crawfish dance and added, "apparantly, you did too."

Andy found himself blushing. The woman noticed it and broke the tension by introducing herself, "I'm Damara. Damara Walker," and extending her hand.

He took it and introduced himself adding, "Damara? That's an interesting name."

"I hear that alot."

"Oh, yes. I'm sure you do. So what's it mean?" Andy asked, suddenly very interested in the woman. He noticed that she did not wear a wedding ring and she was very striking.

Damara Walker was not a classic beauty, but she attended to her appearance in such a way that made what looks she did have even more accented. She had chopped her straight, black hair so as to accent her neck, giving it a longer than actual appearance and drawing attention to her smooth, tapered neckline. Further setting off her neck was a dainty, gold chain from which hung a gold, four-leaf clover. Her eyes, while dark, could have seemed like a night too black for even a vampire, yet there was a certain luminescence about them that Andy found inviting. Olive colored skin provided just the right backdrop for pouty, dark, red lips. Completing, she wore a moderately low-cut, white blouse which revealed just enough cleavage to make a man wonder without being too much to seem slutty. And of course, blue jeans, fitting just right, showing that she still had her shape after at least one child. No, Damara Walker was not a classic beauty, but to Andy Foster, she was just right.

"I'll tell you later," she said coyly, "after I know you better."

"After you..." It suddenly struck Andy that this was an invitation. "Oh. Well. In that case, what are you doing tonight?"

Damara smiled. "Working. But I'm off tomorrow night." She dug into her purse, which, Andy noticed, was not the massive kind, but it was large enough to carry everything a woman might need while away from home for an evening. He smiled at this as he recalled his father's advice about never dating a woman with too big or too small a purse. Too Big? She's insecure and tries to prepare for every possible situation in life -- nothing a man does will ever be good enough. Too small? She'll expect the man to do EVERYTHING. In between, she'll ride the teeter-totter with you and you'll both have fun. Andy wondered if his father was right?

Damara finally pulled out her cell phone. "What's your number?"

Andy snapped to and stammered, "uh, 660-4774," as she keyed in the numbers.

Damara hit send and said, "There." A pause, then Andy's cell began to ring "Mister Blue Sky" by the Electric Light Orchestra and she added, "now you have my number." Call me later. If I don't answer, I'll call you back as soon as I get a break."

As Andy nodded her bus arrived. Andy helped Damara get the stroller into the bus, then he watched as it pulled from the stop. Just then, he saw the Ice Cream truck stop on the side street to make a sale to a bunch of kids. Ice cream. Why not? Andy thought, and he made for the truck.


(Author's note: Thanks to all who emailed suggestions. Email is fine, but I would prefer to see suggestions placed at the end of the post as comments. I just think it would be more fun. But whichever you prefer is fine. So how do you think the date's going to go? How should it go? And what kind of ice cream do you think Andy likes?)

Part 1. The Tall Trees Under Which, We Grew

(Authors Note: Since this is an unconventional kind of novel, I have decided on an unconventional style of wtiting. Through the course of this book, I shall alternate POV, prose/peorty, and a few modern writing styles known to most users of the internet. I do this, not to confuse the reader, but to add greater scale and scope to the story and because this is an experimental novel and because, quite frankly, I was never the sort to go in for convention anyway. In addition, chapter lengths will likewise be unconventional. Some will be long, others, quite short depending on what needs to be said. Again, as this is an unconventional form of Novel...a novel kind of novel, I think I can get away with it. Enjoy and please, contribute. C. J. Oakes)

Chapter One: The Cockroach and the Crawfish

Andy Foster picked up a newspaper first thing every morning. He liked the local paper. It carried the usual assortment of political punditries, local happenings, and world news, but it also carried a segment from a bygone era. It was a throwback to all so-called good journalism today and he was sure that someone had to fight long and hard to get the editorial staff to approve it, but there it was every day, like the sunrise, on page three of Section C: The Poem of the Day.

It was really nothing more than a showcase, a feel good public relations piece for the paper, but for Andy, it was like a cool glass of homemade lemonade on a hot, August afternoon back home. His mother used to read poetry to him when he was growing up and while he had strayed from that path as an adult, he was finding a certain joy again in reading page three, Section C. Today, however, particulary struck him, for it could only have been written by someone from back home. Only a certified Coon-Ass, as Louisiana Cajuns are known in slang, could have come up with something as odd and yet, still so thought-provoking as today's peom.

Andy kicked back and read.

The Cockroach and the Crawfish

By C. J. Oakes

The bag was dragged to the cooking pot
and each small, red creature knew of its lot.
The Boiling water, so strong and so foul,
The first to enter did wail, scream, and howl.

But one escaped, he knew not just how;
When the bag flew open, he slipped out and now,
began to scurry off to safer land
hoping to avoid the hot cauldren's hand.

He skipped across a surface of "rock,"
as a cockroach appeared and started to mock;
For the roach was awaiting a morsel or scrap;
The thing that the humans would all call "L'agnappe."

For anything living the roach could not eat
and waiting for discards, he would take a seat.
But this one would threaten the entire feast;
The roach had to stop this tiny red beast.

So quickly he scurried out on the dance floor
as the crawfish made way for a wide open door;
And raising a ruckus, he started to point
at the crawfish a'trying to leave the joint.

But a lady, on seeing the helpful cockroach
screamed and retreated, but a man did approach.
And raising his foot high up in the air,
he crushed the cockroach with nary a care.

On reaching the door, the crawfish did bow,
and honor his friend for helping him wow
The crowd, so that they, never saw twice,
The fish leave the door, for the bug's sacrifice.

Oakes, huh? Andy thought to himself? Not a cajun name. He wondered who this guy was who had obviously, like himself, located here from there. Clearly, the guy had lived a considerable time in Louisiana, but what had made him come to Lubock? Was it the hurricanes, Rita and Katrina in particular? Or was it a woman? It's usually a woman.

Andy was intrigued. He loved the poem and he wondered if the writer had anymore like it? He decided that he would try to look up the author and meet him, if he was willing. The two might have much in common.

(Authors Note: This is the end of Chapter One. What do you think? Should the two meet? Will they become friends or enemies? Why? And why did each relocate to Lubbock, Texas from somewhere in Louisiana? Where in Louisiana? Send any input/suggestions you'd like. For what shoud be obvious reasons I cannot incorporate all ideas, but I will use as many as possible. Thank you. Jeff)

Dedication and Prologue

This book is dedicated to my Mother, Betty Oakes, who at just 4'6", was the tallest tree I've ever known.

PROLOGUE

As the sun set over West Texas, Andy Foster wondered if he'd made the right decision coming here. Sure, there were plenty of jobs and the economy was rolling, unlike in the rest of the nation, and there was much in the city to keep a single man entertained. Life was buzzing with everything his previous home lacked. A city on the grow, there were museums, nightlife, and dining establishments aplenty. There was a strong contrast between liberal and conservative, religion and agnosticism, tradition and change. Lubbock was a city of contrasts, all vividly painted onto the landscape like the old west cowboy paintings on the old downtown buildings. It was an exciting place to be. Still, always present in the far reaches of his thoughts were the groves of live oaks he had left behind, the lazy summer days fishing on the bayou, and of course Jill.

Andy had known Jill all his life, as he had known the pecan orchards with their succulent fruits presented every season without fail. He had known her since her first puppy, her first kiss, her first love, and her first car. There was not another person alive he knew as well and she could make the same claim. But she was only a friend, there could never be anything more; this he knew. Still, it felt as if he'd left a part of himself behind.

Of course, Andy also understood that he could never have a real relationship as long as she was around, for every time he did meet someone he could form a passion for, the one-to-be would "pick up on vibes" that supposedly he and Jill shared. The one-to-be would always find some reason to break up with him, telling him, as if someone had wispered into their ears the same script, "It just wouldn't have worked with us anyway. You should be with Jill."

Every time he heard those words, Andy just had to wonder if all the old legends were true.

In southwest Louisiana, there once lived a tribe of Atakapas Indians. These were the ones who named the primary river, "Calcasieu," which, translated means "screaming eagle." This is particularly odd when one considers that there are no eagles in the entire region. One legend comes down, sometimes ascribed to these peoples and other times said to have come from another source, that the trees are alive. That is to say, that the trees hold a sort of consciousness. As the legend goes, certain trees have the ability to communicate with humans. Of course, humans are unable to talk back, at least not directly, but the trees can, if they choose, make things known to humans by somehow putting thoughts into their heads. As the legend tells it, the trees are very selective in their use of this ability, which accounts for the fact that it is not a well-known occurance.

Andy always remembered his reaction on hearing that disclaimer. Shaking his head, rolling his eyes, he had simply muttered in his usual cynical fashion, "Naturally. Of course. That's obvious." Still, from time to time, the seeds of curiousity planted, he would wonder just how much fact there really might be to the tale. There were even times in his life when he thought he could hear one certain tree wisper to him. When that happened, he simply shook the thought and silently questioned his sanity.

But how does one account for the scores of scripts spoken over the years by ones-to-be? Perhaps they had all watched the same episodes of Dr. Phil. Maybe they all subscribed to the same women's advice magazines. Or maybe, just maybe, they were all seeing the same signs from he and Jill that the two friends were missing.

It didn't matter now. He was in west Texas and she was still in the deep south. That was that and it was time to move on.