The Grantville Gazette - Volume 4 Part 2

The anguished scream coming from her daughter's bedroom made Vickie Mason jump nearly out of her skin. "What on earth?" she asked her husband, "Arnold, what in the world?"

"I don't know, dear," he responded, "but whatever it is, it isn't going to be good. Heather hardly ever

makes any kind of noise. I think she's got to be the only quiet teenager in the world."

The slamming of a door and the thumping on the stairs told Arnold and Vickie that they would soon hear about the problem. It was a bit of a worry. Heather just didn't make scenes. She was just about the most practical person in the family, and even seemed a bit coldhearted sometimes. Even the news that her favorite aunt, Gayle Mason, would be going to London and facing unknown hazards during the journey hadn't caused this kind of uproar.

"It's broken," Heather wailed as she ran into the room. "It's broken and there aren't any more! What am I

going to do now?"

"Honey, it can't be all that bad. What are you talking about, anyway? What's broken?" Arnold asked, worried.

"My CD player, Dad. It just quit, right in the middle of "Walking to New Orleans." I'll never get to listen

to my music again. I'll be stuck listening to VOA!"

Arnold hid a grin. It was odd for a young girl who was as practical as Heather to be obsessed. It was especially odd for a girl born in the late 1980s to have this particular obsession. Doo-wop music, early rock and roll, even early 1960s folk music were what Heather enjoyed, as well as some blues and jazz.

She didn't care much for any other type of music, like country, cla.s.sical, or opera. Her CD collection was pretty impressive for a young girl, but it only included the types of music she preferred.

"Maybe someone can fix it, honey. Try Larry Dotson at the hardware store," Arnold suggested.

"I could lend you my ca.s.sette player, and some tapes, if you like," Vickie offered, hiding her own grin.

Arnold antic.i.p.ated Heather's next reaction.

"Eeeeyyyyeeewww, Mom," Heather muttered, right on cue. "like I really want to listen to 'Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain' a million times."

"It beats nothing, doesn't it?"

"Not by very much," Heather answered, aware now that she was being teased. "Do you want anything

from downtown? I need to go to the hardware store and talk to Mr. Dotson. Maybe someone will sell me

a player, but it will probably cost a fortune."

"You can pick up a loaf of bread, please, and be careful in town. I swear, getting around Grantville lately must be as hard as getting around New York City used to be. So many people!"

"Yeah," Heather commented, as she grabbed her bag and turned to leave, "sometimes I wish we were

back in the old days. Or up in the new days. Or . . . whatever . . . you know what I mean."

Arnold and Vickie exchanged a look. Yes, they knew what Heather meant. They felt the same way sometimes.

* * * "Velma's either getting really drunk or really brave," Brandy remarked. "Why do you suppose she started hanging around here, anyway? She used to do her drinking out of town."

"Nowhere to go and no way to get there, I guess. She's been drinking here a lot lately, and she never stops spouting off. She's decided it's the Germans' fault that she lost her kids. It sounds crazy to me, but her money is as good as anyone's," Fenton answered. "You know, if she keeps trying to flirt with old Ape, Wilda is going to s.n.a.t.c.h her bald. That ought to be a sight to see."

Brandy started to laugh, but stopped suddenly as she felt someone press against her and reach around to grab her breast. Without thinking, she drove her elbow into the body behind her. The m.u.f.fled "Oooof"

sound made her smile. As the offender stepped back, Brandy turned and dumped a full mug of beer over Freddie's head. Freddie wasn't especially big or strong and stood wheezing and dripping beer all over the floor. The rest of the customers started laughing and making remarks, poking fun at Freddie.

"I told you to keep your hands to yourself, you little weasel. Touch me again and I'll break the beer mug

over your head instead of just dumping the beer."

Being pawed by the clientele of the Club 250 had never been something Brandy enjoyed. The club itself had long ago lost its rather meager attractions for her. The place was a pit, and she was starting to hate it.

Blake Haggerty's question "What's next, a bunch of kids and nowhere to go but down" as well as his remarks about her "meanness," had been on Brandy's mind all day. She had to admit that Blake was telling the truth. She wasn't getting anywhere, and probably wouldn't ever get anywhere, if she kept on this way. She had watched her cousin Marlene trying to cope with all those kids after Donnie and

Melodie had snuck away from home. That had been instructive, too. Why Marlene was willing to live with a man who had two girlfriends in the same house was something that no one understood, especially Brandy.

Brandy was convinced that she just didn't want to wind up like Marlene, Melodie, or Velma. She needed to do something, make some kind of change, even if she hated to think about another wrenching adjustment. Brandy wasn't sure what kind of life she did want, but almost anything would be better than winding up like those three.

"What's going on in here?" Ken shouted, obviously drawn from the office by the noise. "Can't a person

get anything done around this place?"

Brandy said, "This jerk tried grabbing my b.o.o.bs again. I'm sick of it and I'm not taking it, anymore. I told him last week to keep his stinking hands to himself. If you won't stop him, I will."

"And I told you last week to stop pouring beer on the paying customers, Brandy. They PAY me money, you COST me money, and you're NOT even a good waitress," Ken yelled. "You know he's harmless.

Can't you even take a joke? I ought to fire you."

"Go ahead, Ken," Brandy yelled back, glad for an excuse to do it. "I'm tired of this crummy dive

anyway. Better yet, I quit. I know I can do better than this. Take your rinky-d.i.n.k job and shove it!"

"Tell me that when you come crawling back, you useless b.i.t.c.h. What are you going to do now, huh?

Make a living with your so-called brain? You can't keep more than two drink orders straight and you don't know how to do anything else, either," Ken kept on. "You're useless and you're stupid on top of it!

Waitresses are about a dime a dozen, so it's not like I'll miss you. Maybe I can find a waitress who can actually work this time. You d.a.m.n sure don't."

Velma Hardesty, who was listening avidly, decided it was time to throw her two cents in the pot and stir up some more trouble. "I'll work for you, Ken. That pizza joint isn't any fun, anyway. There are too many precious little rug-rats, and their darling moms and pops. I'm tired of not seeing any interesting people." Leaning forward over the table, Velma flashed her cleavage at Ken. "I'm a lot more fun than that little tootsie is, I guarantee."

Ken stopped his tirade and stared at Velma with his eyes alight. "You're hired. You can start right now.

Even with a few beers in you, you've got to be better than she is."

Brandy started laughing. The by-play between Velma and Ken, along with his hateful comments, had convinced her that she was right to leave. She couldn't stay here and listen to Ken's c.r.a.p anymore. She had to do something, anything, else.

Brandy kept laughing as she gathered her things and began the walk home alone. As she walked, things she didn't like to think about, emotions she usually tried to ignore crept into her mind and got the better of her. By the time she got home she was nearly hysterical. She was so glad to be home, finally, that she dissolved into her worried mother's arms, and started to cry.

* * * "So, do you want to tell me what happened?" Donna asked the next morning, as she poured Brandy a cup of coffee. The coffee was a rare treat these days. The scant teaspoon of sugar she used to sweeten Brandy's cup was just as rare. Sugar was hideously expensive and Donna couldn't afford much of it. Still, she had been waiting for what she hoped was happening for several years and felt like a small celebration was in order.

"Exactly what you told me would happen, Mom. I got sick of the job, sick of the people, and I just couldn't take it anymore," Brandy admitted. "You were right. It's no kind of life for anyone. Satisfied?"

"I wouldn't say satisfied, Brandy. I'm sorry you've been hurt, and I'm sorry you've wasted four years finding out that I was right," Donna answered. "I never wanted you to hang out with that crowd, and I'm

very, very glad you've come to your senses about them. What I meant was do you want to tell me why you started hanging out with those people in the first place?"

Brandy's face froze. Donna realized that she had pushed this subject too soon, and Brandy still wasn't

going to talk about it.

"What did happen last night?" she asked.

"I got tired of being pawed is what happened. I dumped a beer over someone's head and got fired. I'm

sure I'll get a real good reference from Ken, won't I?" Brandy sneered. "Not that I'd get a good reference from anyone. What am I going to do now? I've never done anything but wait tables. And I've never worked anywhere but the club."

"You could take a week or so off and spend some time thinking, if you want to. We can afford that.

Marvin Tipton stopped by to see me a while back. He said that he's talked to Peggy Craig and arranged a job for you, if you ever want it. You can start at the elementary school lunchroom Monday if you want to. Marvin promised that the job would be there when you wanted it."

"Great, Mom. I can go sling hash for a bunch of brats, what fun."

"Brandy," Donna snapped, "you said yourself that you've never done anything else. If you really mean this, you're going to have to get your GED and you're going to have to prove that you can work at a real

job. You can't spend four years at the bottom of the barrel and expect to start at the top somewhere else.

Be realistic. It takes years to get ahead."

Donna could tell that Brandy hadn't thought that far. Sitting there, surprised at her mother's vehemence,