JIMMY FLOYD AND THE CREEPING MUCUS

The thing about being a writer is that you get a lot of ideas that you put down on paper that don't really go anywhere.

You also get ideas that you put down on paper that you want to go somewhere, but you just don't have the time to do a lot with them.

Those go into a file. The hope is that one day you'll have some time to give those ideas a chance.

One of those ideas, for me, is The Creeping Mucus.


Back at the tail end of 2015, I was trying to plan out what my 2016 would look like in regards to writing, and I thought I might just take a year and write short stories.

Yeah, that didn't happen.

What did happen was that I started a few of them, but only finished one: The Other Gunfight, which you can get, by the way, for free just by joining my mailing list:




Subscribe to my mailing list

* indicates required


Email Format




So anyway, the idea had been one short story every month. Ten to twelve short stories in all. Then collect them and publish the book.

The Creeping Mucus was going to be the lead in that endeavor, hence the title: The Creeping Mucus and Other Stories.

Then 2016 ended with not one of these short stories completed. In 2017 I finished the one (The Other Gunfight) and it was then that I realized that I was focusing on the wrong things. So I threw my efforts back into Then a Penguin Walked In and Norman Oklahoma (both to be released this year) and filed away The Creeping Mucus after six chapters.

Every once in a while, however, I think about the story. In fact, one of the reasons I abandoned The Creeping Mucus was because I'd gotten stuck on a plot point. I knew I needed a particular something to happen, but I couldn't figure out how I was going to make it happen. Then it hit me and I filled four pages in my writing journal with the plan to move the story forward.

But, The Creeping Mucus wasn't my focus, so I went no further.

Here's the thing, though, I know that The Creeping Mucus will most definitely be something I go back to.

Why?

Because I really enjoyed writing what I'd written so far. The idea is silly, and I think the character is great. I even have three other ridiculous story ideas for him after The Creeping Mucus.

His name is Jimmy Floyd.

The story takes place in the early 1990s. Jimmy is just out of high school and had big plans to ... You know what, he tells the story better.

I present to you folks, Chapter One of The Creeping Mucus in all its first draft, typo-filled, glory:

MUSIC SAVED MY LIFE, then I saved the world. So I guess you could say that music saved the world. But really, I saved the world. Music was just responsible for putting me in the right place at the right time so that I could do my thing the way I was meant to.

Heck, if you really wanted to get into the minutiae of the whole thing you could even say Kirk Cobain bears some responsibility to keeping the world safe. But I wouldn’t. Sure, he played his part, but in the end it’s all me. Always has been, always will be.

You know how they say that it’s always darkest before the dawn? That things have to get real bad before they get worse. That’s what happened to me. I’d hit rock bottom in life. I'd never felt lower. Then people started to die. I couldn’t let that happed.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

You need to know how I got there first. How far I fell.

See, there are certain moments in everyone’s lives, those we label as ‘defining’. Moments that change the very way we see the world around us. Moments that change us completely. One moment we see a world that is open to us with opportunity around every corner. I mean, sky’s the limit, right? You’re young, you’re full of plain old American gumption, and the world is the canvas on which you’re gonna paint the masterpiece that is your life.

Then . . . Well, that’s usually about the time the real world steps in to give you a cold dose of reality by crapping all over the fresh pot of optimism you’ve just finished brewing.

We call that a good old fashioned reality check and it happens to the best of us.

If you’re lucky, you won’t be shaking hands with your own personal reality check until later in life. I mean, they say ignorance is bliss, right. So stay stupid as long as you can, you’ll be happier that way.

For me? Well, mine came at the tender age of eighteen when I’d realized that I wasn’t going to be a rock star. This was 1991 and I’d forsaken the advice of every adult that had taken a moment out their own crappy lives to give a crap about mine.

“Go to college,” they’d tell me.

“That’s not the plan,” I’d say.

“Okay then,” would come the reply. “So what is the plan?”

“Music,” I’d pronounce. “As soon as I can get the band out to L.A. we’ll get signed and that’s all she wrote.”

“But what if you don’t get signed?”

“Oh, we will.”

“But what if you don’t?”

“That doesn’t even factor in to the equation, dude,” I’d laugh. “I mean, have you heard us play? We rock the stage every night.”

My band, Queen Alice, the hottest group of malcontents ever to come out of Kansas, had been riding what they now call the hair band craze all the way to the bank. I mean, people loved us. I wasn’t lying when I said we rocked the stage every night. We brought the friggin’ house down wherever we went.

“But what if it doesn’t work out?” the adults would repeat. “Come on, James, you can’t put all your eggs in one basket, you gotta have a back up plan.”

“First off,” I’d say. “I don’t go by James anymore. It’s Jimmy,” then I’d pause for effect and pat at the wall of hair that rose from my head like a glam rock tumble weed. “Jimmy Floyd.”

I was such a douche back then.

“Secondly,” I’d continue. “A back up plan is just a recipe for failure, dude. If you have nothing to fall back on, it’s only gonna to make you work for that goal that much harder. Right?”

“Well, I suppose in theory that sounds right,” they would say. “But when you look at it from a practical stand point—”

“Practical has nothing to do with it, dude. Look at my hair, for cripes sake.”

Eventually they’d give up and I’d go back to rocking.

Life was good.

Heck, life was great.

I’d stand on stage each every weekend night in my leather pants, shredding away at my guitar. My solos were the stuff of legend. I’d hit notes so high and so fast that the chicks in the front row would faint from pure bliss.

I was number one with a bullet and nothing was going to stop me.

Then two things happened that derailed my crazy train and left me looking like something the cat dragged in.

First, I graduated high school. Not a big, life altering event by itself. But my pops wanted me out of the house. I didn’t blame him, he was too old to handle the sweet riffs I rocked in my bedroom at all hours. It just wasn’t his thing. But the band had a plan, and my pops was willing to get on board. Six months working in the daylight hours to earn what we needed to get us to L.A. and the record contract that waited for Queen Alice. Six months of rocking every local stage we could hit to earn even more dough to get us to our destiny. Six months . . . That’s all we needed.

Then the second thing happened.

Out of the blue this little nothing of a band from Seattle called Nirvana came along, dropped a little nothing of a single called Smells Like Teen Spirit, introduced the world to grunge rock, and the face of music changed overnight.

I mean, damn, who could have seen that coming? Grunge rock? Are you serious? Three guys dressed in something you’d find digging through the unwanted bins at the Salvation Army throw three chords together and they plant their damn flag into the road of musical history forever.

My music career was pretty much over after that. Sure, Queen Alice tried to keep it going, but the people didn’t want it anymore. We even tried a name change and dove head first onto the grunge rock band wagon, but we weren’t fooling anyone. You could spot us coming a mile away . . . A glam rock band hiding in a grunge rock package. We never stood a chance.

Anyway, that was my moment. Kirk Cobain might as well have driven on down to Kansas and stabbed me in the heart with his guitar. At least then I would have gone down with people knowing my name.

So L.A., no record contract, no dream.

Then my pops kicked me out.

I stayed with Rob, my drummer, for a week before he too kicked me to the curb for being too much of a dirty slob. I mean, I thought this was rock-n-roll, but whatever.

So then I’d made the rounds with the other band mates. Iggy, the bass player, turned out to be a flipping genius and moved to Massachusetts to attend MIT. The guy’s building rockets now or something. He’s not allowed to talk about it.

Tommy, our singer, is a bigger slob than me and I ain’t sleeping with cockroaches so I baled after the first night.

That left all the ladies in my life, but they wanted nothing to do with me anymore. But hey, that was cool. Most of them had taken this whole grunge thing a bit too literal and stopped showering. Gross.

I’d had to beg my pops to let me back into the house and eventually he agreed. But I’d had to abide by two conditions.

One: I’d take the civil service exam and and get a real job.

Two: Eighty percent of what I earned went to him to hold for me.

Three: Once I’d given him enough for first and last month’s rent, I was out and into my own place.

What choice did I have? Live under a bridge or stop rocking?

I took the exam and by the fall of 1992 I was delivering mail for the United States Post Office. Heck, I’m still there to this day.

It was there, that next spring in 1993, that I came face to face with my second reality check, one in which I’d have been happy to stay blissfully unaware of my entire life, one I’d more than likely would have just shrugged off as a series of heat-induced hallucinations had it not come to life and started eating people.

That was one crazy summer.

Want more from Jimmy Floyd? Let me know and I'll do what I can to make it a reality sooner than later.



No comments:

Post a Comment