How well do you know me?
Not sure you are on the right blog? After all, there's only about two million Jennifer Johnsons in the world. Believe me, I've met some of them. I have been mistaken for some of them. Maybe some of them have been mistaken for me. One interesting person who shared my name had bad credit and liked married boyfriends. Her boyfriend's wife called me one night. I didn't sleep too well after the conversation because I was afraid of getting shot for something I totally didn't do.
So, you know this about me. The only married guy I sleep with is the one I'm married to. This cuts down on jealous wives calling me although, as I've said, it hasn't stopped the problem entirely. I contemplated changing my name because of this. But decided if I changed it to Blondina, I would have a hard time finding coffee mugs and key chains with my name printed on them.
Here's something else about me. I'm from the deep south. I've eaten fried green tomatoes, red-eyed gravy, grits, and fried okra. And I have the thighs to prove it.
On my wedding day, a blue grass band played, and we ate bar-be-cue at a party with my family and close friends. It was over a hundred degrees that day. And a newly acquired uncle brought a bottle of Jack Daniels from the distillery he visited on the way to the wedding.
I am putting some of you in my books. If you don't want me to do this, then you should be nice to me or send me money. Or just be too boring for me to want to write about you. If you don't want me to use your name, then you'll need to send me your fantasy name, except you, Leona. Too bad, but your name is staying in.
Eventually I will write a story dedicated to and about a group of sissies. You know who you are. I think it will be an anthology with each sissy having her own story.
Right now, I'm working on a story with the working title of "Diamond in the Rough".
If you have a few minutes, I've included a scene from it you can read. This will give you an idea of my voice, and hopefully you will want to buy and download The Jinx which is coming out August 29th.
The premise of this story is that a young lady named Abigail is doing community service at an inner city community center.
Here it is.
On the third day I was at the community center in, if I’m honest, what is actually a pretty scary part of town; my car was broken into. I even saw the punk who did it. This young man’s name is Yo-yo. I’m reasonably sure it is not the name his mother gave him, if she even stuck around long enough to name him, that is. If you knew half the stories of the lives of these kids, it would break your heart into at least ten pieces. Geez, it’s so sad what these kids have been through; however, does it give them the right to break the lock on my car door, pilfer through my glove compartment, and steal my CDs? I don’t think so.
Mr. Harvey and I were just walking out the door, when we saw Yo-yo jump away from my car and pull the “I’m too cool to be doing anything I shouldn’t be doing” act. Mr. Harvey’s lip curled, and I could have sworn I saw a small puff of smoke come out of one nostril (no, he wasn’t smoking at the time). We both knew Yo-yo was doing a no-no; and I knew that this could either make me or break me with this little guy and all of his homeys, so I asked Mr. Harvey if I could handle the situation in my way and would it be breaking any rules if Yo-yo and I took a little drive while we worked things out. Mr. Harvey agreed, and I walked over to where Yo-yo was trying to rapidly make his way away from my car and still stroll nonchalantly as if he had no care in the world.
“Yo-yo!” I called and ran to catch up with him. He acted like he didn’t hear me. Big surprise, right?
When I was walking abreast with him, I smiled so sweetly, so saintly as if this little kid was my best friend. I invited him to come with me, linked my arm into his, and turned us around to my poor violated Toyota. He still had not said a word. As I walked by the car, I noticed that, sure enough, my CD carrier was missing. It was small so I had a pretty good idea where the kid had stashed it.
“Come, Mr. Harvey said we could go for a ride, Yo-yo,” I said.
He cut his eyes to me. I could see the wheels spinning in his brain. Did he know the jig was up or could he fake his way out of the ride?
“I can’t, Miss Abigail. My…uh…sister is s’posed to pick me up in ten minutes.”
“Mr. Harvey will tell her where you are. I’ll even drop you off at home, if you want me to.” I said. Who could resist me? I reached for his backpack which he had slung low on one arm, but he moved it to the other arm. I guided him into the back seat on my side.
“You better sit in the back, Yo-yo,” I said. “I have passenger side airbags, you know.” I winked at him. I also leaned in like I was going to help him put on his seatbelt, but he grudgingly did it himself, probably so that I’d get away from him. Maybe I stank that day, who knows? Anyway, I also wondered as I settled into the front seat if this eleven year old might just stick a knife right through the back of the seat into my spine. I was trusting and hoping that Mr. Harvey knew this kid well enough to know whether I’d be safe with him or not. What kind of world we live in that a twenty three year old woman is afraid of a child! Maybe that’s my own ignorance and prejudice coming out, however. I just pretended I was Wonder Woman–great body and no fear. Jewelry that was pretty and practical (remember those cool bracelets which could block bullets?) Where was I? Oh, yes. I was risking a knife in the back but I wasn’t about to wimp out.
Also, I had quick reflexes. That comes from growing up with two older brothers. So, I turned around, grabbed Yo-yo’s backpack and pulled it into the front seat. He grabbed for it, but he wasn’t as fast as me and the seatbelt constrained him. I grew a little more confident.
“Before we go, you don’t mind if I open your backpack, do you? I just want to get my CDs out and maybe listen to some tunes since we seem to enjoy the same taste in music.”
I zipped the bag open wondering what I’d do if I found a gun or some drugs in there. I hadn’t really thought of that possibility. I guessed I’d just turn it in to Mr. Harvey when we got back. With my luck, though, I’d get stopped by a cop first and have to go right to jail. No way they’d fall for my innocent routine twice even though I, of course, would be innocent both times. Me? I do not do drugs. I prefer to abuse my body with fried foods.
Luckily there were only school books and papers, a Nintendo DS and my canvas CD carrier. I pulled it out and heard Yo-yo sigh. It was a long suffering sigh, the kind my mom used to do when she would walk in my bedroom when I was growing up and discover that I hadn’t made my bed that morning. How simple life was back then. But back to the CDs and Yo-yo.
I unzipped my carrier and flipped through the CDs. I was thinking either Abba or Enya–something that would make Yo-yo as miserable as possible on a twenty minute ride. Enya was obviously the best choice, but could I stand it for twenty minutes? Probably not. I do not know what I was thinking when I was going through my Enya phase. Abba, however, was a classic. Every person ought to be exposed and come to appreciate their music. Yo-yo’s time had come. Just for fun, I put it on #6 and hit the repeat button. I may not be able to put up with Enya for 20 minutes, but I could listen to “Dancing Queen” all day. By the fourth time through the song, I was singing–and doing a pretty good job too. I was making wide circles through the neighborhood coming back to the center to psych Yo-yo out. Just when I might have slowed down to turn in the parking lot, I would speed up and pass on by. I had adjusted my rearview mirror to be able to see Yo-yo’s face, and it was hard not to start laughing the first time I passed by the center. He looked miserable. How can you not be happy to “Dancing Queen”?
I’ll convert him. He’ll be the hippest kid in town. Maybe he’ll even share his new-found musical taste with his friends and Abba will do a tour again. Wouldn’t life be sweet then?
After the seventh time going by the center, I thought I saw a tear come out of his left eye.
“Miss Abigail, please, please! I’m sorry I took your stuff. Please, can we go back to the community center? I’m sorry, Miss Abigail!”
Well, it seemed so genuine, and he did say he was sorry. I pulled over to the curb and cut the music. I turned around and gave him my best stern teacher stare.
“Yo-yo, I’d like you to make me a promise that you won’t break into people’s cars anymore and take their stuff.”
In a second his face became shuttered. He looked out the window.
“Have you ever heard of the Golden Rule? It says that you treat people the way you want them to treat you. Now I notice you have a nice Nintendo in your bag. I might like to take that Nintendo for myself, but it’s yours so I leave it alone. That’s the Golden Rule.”
No response. I cranked up the music and we went again.
We went through the song eight more times before he broke down. He promised not to break into any more cars to steal anything. I did notice he had left himself a loophole there. He had not promised not to break into any more cars; just not to break into any more cars to steal anything. Perhaps Yo-yo would grow up to be a lawyer. Goodness knows we could use some more of them.
I pulled into the parking lot, parked and cut the engine, then he and I exited the car and walked toward the center.
“Miss Abigail, your music sucks,” Yo-yo said as he left my presence.
“Hey, Yo-yo!” I yelled after him, “Break into any more cars and I’ll make sure you hear every song Buck Owens ever sang.”
So, is this worth a comment?