Robert Jordan
04-13-2007, 10:52 PM
THIS IS A ROUGH DRAFT OF THE FIRST CHAPTER OF MY STORY. I LIKE IT SO FAR. LET ME KNOW WHAT I SHOULD WORK ON OR WHAT YOU LIKE. ALL OPINIONS ARE WELCOME AND NEEDED. DONT BE AFRAID TO LET ME HAVE IT!
Bob American- and a few tales from his early childhood
Bob American was a fine lad. Went to a fine lad’s school when he was a boy.
That was a long time ago, was it not? 1997 to be exact. It seems he really fell asleep on the way to the future.
Happens to a lot of us, though.
Or it could be he just didn’t care cuz he was American. Hell, a name like that even the God of your Father aint gonna mess with you.
Anyway, back to the story. 1997 was an interesting year for a boy who was thirteen years old and whose name was Bob American. Growing up in sunny Southern California on the West Coast of the Great United States of Our Merica wasn’t so bad either.
Bob never knew his “real” parents. He grew up with his Aunt and Uncle Bill and Jill Jalabari. Even though their last names were not American they WERE still his Aunt and Uncle. He knew that his “real” parents were still alive, he just couldn’t where they had been his whole life.
Bob was your average thirteen year old American. White, blond hair, blue eyes and tan. Except, growing up in Southern California in an area called San Clemente it was very disquieting to hear that the kid didn’t know how to surf.
But he sure did love his Playstation and computer games (especially Warcraft Part Two and Duke Nukem3-D). He and his best friend Pedro Hernandez loved to run around the schoolyard pretending that everyone around was an alien and they were Duke Nukem come to smoke the bastards out!
Pedro Hernandez was a great kid. He was Mexican with really thick black hair, almost grey, really. Had a bit of a weight problem as well. That was just fine by him because Bob had a really bad acne problem and was ugly as sin at the time. Hell, they were both ugly as sin but at least the girls would look at Pedro with slightly less disgust.
Bob hated spending the night at Pedro’s because Pedro’s family was too poor to afford a computer, and, of course, that meant no Duke Nukem 3-D!
Oh, well……. Bob American loved Pedro’s family. Pedro lived in a two bedroom run down little apartment with his mother, his two sisters, and his Grandpa.
Pedro’s mom was always friendly to Bob American in an obliging sort of way. When they’d come in from school, Pedro would always go through the motions of asking his mother if it was alright if Bob spent the night. Pedro’s mom would yell sternly at Pedro in Spanish and then smile at Bob and nod her head. And she was always, and I mean always, planted on the couch in the living room watching either some Mexican game show or soap opera. She also slept on that couch, by the way.
The only time Bob saw Pedro’s mom not sitting on that couch was when Pedro’s Grandfather, Senor Santiago, as he liked to be called by anyone other than his family, got home from work and was hungry. She would immediately get up and start cooking him dinner. It was weird for Bob American, because their conversation was so sparse. Yet, somehow, in his thirteen year old mind it sounded more melancholy and lively than any conversation he could recall his Aunt and Uncle having.
Pedro’s Grandfather had two distinctions: his hands and his smell.
His hands were like burnt almonds that have been lying out in the Sun and have rusted over from sheer glory in praise to the Sun’s brilliance. His smell was sweat personified. Not a mild mannered sweat that one has after going for a jog or doing the mile run at school, but a permeating odor stronger than any cologne, that comes only from gardening other peoples houses all day for the last 25 years of your life. You feel green but you can’t smell the grass. The sweat and the almonds take over and the only color and smell you can see and taste is hard work.
Boy, did Bob American sure love Senor Santiago. Seeing him always filled Bob American with pride, and he sort of wished that if he ever saw his “real” Dad, that his “real” Dad would have hands such as his and a smell such as that.
Bob American- and a few tales from his early childhood
Bob American was a fine lad. Went to a fine lad’s school when he was a boy.
That was a long time ago, was it not? 1997 to be exact. It seems he really fell asleep on the way to the future.
Happens to a lot of us, though.
Or it could be he just didn’t care cuz he was American. Hell, a name like that even the God of your Father aint gonna mess with you.
Anyway, back to the story. 1997 was an interesting year for a boy who was thirteen years old and whose name was Bob American. Growing up in sunny Southern California on the West Coast of the Great United States of Our Merica wasn’t so bad either.
Bob never knew his “real” parents. He grew up with his Aunt and Uncle Bill and Jill Jalabari. Even though their last names were not American they WERE still his Aunt and Uncle. He knew that his “real” parents were still alive, he just couldn’t where they had been his whole life.
Bob was your average thirteen year old American. White, blond hair, blue eyes and tan. Except, growing up in Southern California in an area called San Clemente it was very disquieting to hear that the kid didn’t know how to surf.
But he sure did love his Playstation and computer games (especially Warcraft Part Two and Duke Nukem3-D). He and his best friend Pedro Hernandez loved to run around the schoolyard pretending that everyone around was an alien and they were Duke Nukem come to smoke the bastards out!
Pedro Hernandez was a great kid. He was Mexican with really thick black hair, almost grey, really. Had a bit of a weight problem as well. That was just fine by him because Bob had a really bad acne problem and was ugly as sin at the time. Hell, they were both ugly as sin but at least the girls would look at Pedro with slightly less disgust.
Bob hated spending the night at Pedro’s because Pedro’s family was too poor to afford a computer, and, of course, that meant no Duke Nukem 3-D!
Oh, well……. Bob American loved Pedro’s family. Pedro lived in a two bedroom run down little apartment with his mother, his two sisters, and his Grandpa.
Pedro’s mom was always friendly to Bob American in an obliging sort of way. When they’d come in from school, Pedro would always go through the motions of asking his mother if it was alright if Bob spent the night. Pedro’s mom would yell sternly at Pedro in Spanish and then smile at Bob and nod her head. And she was always, and I mean always, planted on the couch in the living room watching either some Mexican game show or soap opera. She also slept on that couch, by the way.
The only time Bob saw Pedro’s mom not sitting on that couch was when Pedro’s Grandfather, Senor Santiago, as he liked to be called by anyone other than his family, got home from work and was hungry. She would immediately get up and start cooking him dinner. It was weird for Bob American, because their conversation was so sparse. Yet, somehow, in his thirteen year old mind it sounded more melancholy and lively than any conversation he could recall his Aunt and Uncle having.
Pedro’s Grandfather had two distinctions: his hands and his smell.
His hands were like burnt almonds that have been lying out in the Sun and have rusted over from sheer glory in praise to the Sun’s brilliance. His smell was sweat personified. Not a mild mannered sweat that one has after going for a jog or doing the mile run at school, but a permeating odor stronger than any cologne, that comes only from gardening other peoples houses all day for the last 25 years of your life. You feel green but you can’t smell the grass. The sweat and the almonds take over and the only color and smell you can see and taste is hard work.
Boy, did Bob American sure love Senor Santiago. Seeing him always filled Bob American with pride, and he sort of wished that if he ever saw his “real” Dad, that his “real” Dad would have hands such as his and a smell such as that.