Excerpt from my short story "The bad, bad luck of Judson Worley"

"Back in them days, only tele-ma-vision in Makersville was owned by Bobby Dickers down at Dickers grain and feed, an’ he was a mean old sort, not a feller, for example, to let other folks in his house, ya get me? But the whole town was a buzzin’ at the thought o’ seein’ one of their own bein’ broadcast to the masses, an’ that miserable son of a bitch Bobby Dickers eventually agreed to let the folk o’ the town into his home – for a price, o’ course! Second problem was, his house was barely big enough for him and his family, let alone a couple o’ hundred townsfolk, so once the important people, the landowners, storeowners, and o’ course the old timers were all seated up inside the house, weren’t no room for much of anybody else! What ensued was nothin’ short o’ a carnival; ya got people starin’ in the window, bringin’ stools and steps to try and see over everyone else, ya got folks climbin’ on roofs, up trees, on balconies, shoutin’ for Bobby Dickers to move that tele-ma-vision up to the window so they could see! I even saw one feller, no word of a lie, up a telegraph pole out in the Jackson field, tryin’ ta watch with a tele-ma-scope, no word of a lie, I tell ya! Well, after all the commotion and kerfufflin’, folks finally got settled down to watch the show. Jud was third on the bill, and we all sat patiently though some crooner and a good ol’ country boy, same ol’ same ol’ back in them days, ya get me? And then sure enough, after an enthusiastic introduction from the host, Jud swaggered out on the stage, with a full band accompaniment behind ‘im; horns, backin’ singers, you name it! The crowd was on they feet, cheerin’ an’ a hollerin’, watchin’ Jud stroll across toward the mic, clutchin’ that shiny new Fender gee-tar, wavin’ to the crowd as he went, smilin’, confident, lookin’ like nothin’ on god’s green earth could stop ‘im! Then, out of the blue, it all went wrong for poor ol’ Jud. Jus’ as he was almost there - he was so close he started reachin’ for the mic – he tripped and fell, right slap on his face! Bang! O’ course, he had that gee-tar out in front o’ him, and it took the full weight o’ Judson Worley  - a feller o’ considerable size as he was – and that gee-tar got smashed into a hundred pieces! Crowd went quiet. Jud stood up, dusted his-self down, and jus’ stared down at the broken guitar neck dangling’ from his paw. A stage hand rushed out with a replacement gee-tar, and Jud slung it over his shoulder, sure enough. But what happened next, well… once again I was dumbstruck! I simply could not believe ma eyes!" 

Excerpt from my short story "The bad, bad luck of Judson Worley"

“It all started back in the spring o’ the year of our lord nineteen hundred and fifty two; howdy-doo, a fine year that was right enough, right e-nough! I - and Jud for that matter - was twenty one years young, Harry S. Truman was sittin’ in the White House, Al Martino and Frankie Laine were on the radio; those were the days boy, those. Were. The. Days! Heee-hoooo! ‘Course, the town o’ Makersville weren’t much more’n a dirt track back in those days, but still, a fine time to be alive, a fine time! Anyhows, ‘round that time, Old Pop Worley, Judson’s daddy, gave that boy his first gee-tar – a real junker, must o’ been sittin’ around in the old Worley house since, oh, before anyone could remember. Now, before I go on, I gotta tell ya – Judson Worley, good enough feller though he was, wasn’t quite all there upstairs, ya hear me? In other words, that boy was a simpleton; had the brain o’ a child, true enough. Now, Me an’ him grew up together round these parts, but I never saw much o’ that boy after he started playing that gee-tar, save whenever I took a walk past the jetty down by the river on the east side o’ town; Jud was down there every single day I heard, sittin’ with his feet danglin’ in the water, pluckin’ at that old gee-tar. Sounded like hell, boy couldn’t play a damn thing, but what ya gonna do, he seemed to be enjoyin’ his self so everybody jus’ left him to his own business. This went on for, oh, a month or so. Then one night - a Saturday in the month o’ May I think it was – I was sittin’ here, at this very bar! ‘Course, in them days, this place was jumpin’ on the weekend, hooo-haaa! Town might o’ been nothin’ but a dirt track, but it was our dirt track, ya get me? So I was sittin’ here, right here, when I heard a commotion down in back. That meant jus’ one thing an’ one thing only – the band was comin’ on! Heee-haaaw! Now, rest of the good ol’ US of A was doin’ they thing and doin’ it good, but round these parts… well we play the blues, the blues, and nothin’ but the blues, ya hear me boy? So, it was Saturday night, every feller in town lookin’ to blow off some steam, and sure enough, local band by the name o’ “The River Snakes” strode up on the stage. As was the usual, everyone in the place was up on they feet, a hootin’ and a hollerin’ ready to forget what ails ‘em and have a darn good time, ya hear? But then… well, sends a shiver down ma spine thinkin’ about it even now, all these years later,  but… well, who strode up on that stage right alongside the River Snakes, clutchin’ a bran’ new Fender electric gee-tar – a Tele-ma-caster or some such – yeah, you guessed it son, it was Jud Worley!"