Static Movement (eBook)

Howard Hoover (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
556 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-7166-8 (ISBN)

Infos

Reggie struggles to remain employed in a job in which he is grossly unqualified. Lloyd lives with his irritable elderly mother in a one-bedroom apartment unable to make ends meet. An unexpected visitor up-ends their existence and provides an opportunity for them to lean on each other. As they rediscover purpose in their lives, a path appears that leads to redemption. 'Static Movement' conveys the frailty of the human condition and sits between the extremes of humor and anguish, hope and desperation.

Howard Hoover lives in Mint Hill, North Carolina with his family. 'Static Movement' is his first novel after writing 'Travels through a Toxic Shock Nightmare', a memoir about his struggle with toxic shock syndrome. He works as a financial analyst in telecommunications and holds a Bachelor of Science degree from the United States Merchant Marine Academy, a Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering degree from the University of South Florida, and a Master of Business Administration degree from Mercer University. He enjoys spending time with family, cooking, movies, reading, writing, history, and staying physically active.

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"e;Static Movement"e; portrays three characters struggling to survive while experiencing moments of humor and suspense with a dash of grace. An elderly lady, her adult son, and a male neighbor are each fighting their everyday demons when an opportunity appears for them to find a glimmer of hope in their lives. Lloyd and his mother, Momma, have fallen on hard times without any means or financial stability. Facing eviction, Lloyd tries to build a career from an unskilled past. Momma fights her isolation and life's disappointment with well-worn homemade video cassettes of 70s TV detective, Kojak. Reggie, their neighbor, finds himself in way over his head in an office job serving three masters: a demanding boss, an anonymous caller, and a mysterious visitor all with different agendas. Careers, dating, expectations, threats, boredom, unmet potential, and isolation are themes throughout the novel that challenge the characters and help them to ultimately find purpose. Some of the philosophy may remind readers of Terry Pratchett, while the humor may be compared with that of Carl Hiassen, Tim Dorsey, and Tom Robbins. Others may find the frailty of the human condition reflected similarly to the works of Hunter S. Thompson. "e;Static Movement"e; includes salty language, adult situations, and hints of violence.

Textauszug

Chapter 1
A Place

“Momma needs her smokes!” The elderly matriarch uttered with a croak from her perch on the couch.

“They’re over by the phone. You were on it all morning.” her son yelled from the bathroom.

“Oh sure, now I gotta get up once my fanny’s gotten into the groove here.” The matriarch, known to the familiar and the not so familiar as “Momma,” complained, unable to let the need go. The scene currently taking place in Unit 712 of the Westside Apartments was one of determination if one was willing to look deeply. if one were willing to look deeply. Just as her son said, the phone was sitting a couple of inches away from her cigarettes on the kitchen counter. She recalled putting the phone on the stand, once it died between the sofa cushions, after informing the front office of the latest disturbance to her delicately maintained peace. These days her phone conversations were limited to telemarketers who ultimately would hang up on a talkative Momma, her need for a bended ear outweighing the need for the bended ear to make a sale. Betamax and VHS tapes of recorded shows of yore now took the place of friends turned acquaintances, their quality of companionship waning as the years wore on.

“Oh geez Momma.” her son, Lloyd, called out, summoned by the over the top grunts and groans from the living room. Lloyd entered the room with a towel around his waist and shaving cream on his face. “You know getting up isn’t going to kill you. Besides, you need to smoke these outside like I told you,” he said, handing her the pack and lighter.

She took this jibe as a black mark on her character, so much so that she was able to shift weight from one ass cheek to the other but wherever one ended and one began no one knew. The fire of offense burned heartily if not for a flashy moment. “That’s good you weren’t on the can. Usually, you’re on so long you can’t walk, so don’t go judgin’ my ass.” Grabbing the back of the couch, she felt better having some life in her even if it was to insult her son.

“Damn, I told you I get my best reading done in there. It’s the only way I can focus,” Lloyd retorted once he made sure the pack and lighter were successfully secured in Momma’s leathery mitts.

“Not good for your legs, you’re gonna get a clot in there and one day you won’t be comin’ out and then your intestines will fall out of your backside. Same thing happened to my cousin Harvey. Is that how you want to go out of this world? Is that how I’m s’posed to find you?” she said with a look that displayed how impressed she was with herself for recalling such medical facts gathered from the internet so long ago and a family tragedy buried in half-truths at a moment’s notice. Such a two for one sale in her mind.

Momma turned back around on the sofa and looked at the cigarette pack in admiration. Momma was a lifelong smoker and loved her smokes. If they hadn’t killed her yet then she looked upon them as a trusted friend, a friend that would listen to her problems and take them away in a smelly, toxic cloud. Whatever the hell was going on inside her while the smoke was milling about was for those eggheads like Dr. Woz on television to figure out. She was an advocate of Dr. Woz. What he said was gold and she believed in him. It was rather ironic however that her fandom of his show did nothing to affect her own life and habits. But whatever Dr. Woz said would be ammunition for her to lecture others on how to improve their lives. Dr. Woz never entered her life for change, no, she wasn’t going to be manipulated like that. Her smokes were her major vice but to even the casual observer it was impossible to convince her that the comfort they provided was going to kill her. Not in her body or her pocketbook. No way.

Lloyd, a bit peeved at her lazy critiques on his private escapist habits replied, “Right now I’m beggin’ for that to happen. You want me to crouch like those people in India we saw in that documentary? Christ, I can’t get that out of my head. Last time you have the remote.”

“That ain’t a problem anymore with no more cable. Before that your Momma was watching out for your well-being. Dr. Woz on the TV here even told of the hazards of prolonged can sitting.” She removed a cigarette from the pack and waved it with a flourish as if she were Gloria Swanson entering a posh gathering. Unlike Ms. Swanson there was no way anyone would accept Momma’s offer of a close-up; the years of smokes saw to that. Her skin had the pallor of a rotting lemon and the texture to match. Looking back over the years of photos that had been collected one could imagine with great effort similarities between past and present Momma, however, transitions can be difficult to track. Appearances notwithstanding, Momma had simply become someone who was difficult to be around. But to Lloyd she was his mother and like a good son he accepted his responsibility towards her albeit at times begrudgingly.

“I am not discussing this with you. I wasn’t on the can so leave it at that. And do not light that thing in here. I would like my deposit back. Already have your third hand smoke on the furniture. Outside.” Lloyd pointed to the sliding glass door for a second without looking at her then turned around and headed back in the bathroom before she could respond. The door shut with a click.

Momma muttered to herself, “Big Spender, fuckin’ deposit, I live mah goddamn life in fear of the deposit. Pointin’ at me like a dog. I used to do the pointin’, now I just do the listenin’.” Then she yelled, “Ya found this couch by the dumpster! Who gives a shit!”

Recovering from the effort to think of a respectable retort she rocked her body from side to side and pushed off the couch in a sudden motion uncertain if she had underestimated or overestimated the effort required. Her faux silk dressing gown with the unfortunate stitching that had died a thousand deaths hung around her in a haphazard way as she shuffled her feet to the sliding glass door. Out there was the not so glorious view of the parking lot. Although the one-bedroom apartment that she and Lloyd shared was comfortable she hated that the balcony was adjacent to the breezeway next to the parking lot. She hated hearing strange footsteps when she had nodded off.

She took up her place in the familiar camping chair on the patio. Her favorite was the blue one, the backrest didn’t slice into her shoulder blades and ever-expanding back fat like the others. Its blue fabric had become faded from the sun exposure and the burns from multiple dropped cigs did nothing for its appearance. She wished there was more shade on the balcony, she found herself avoiding the outside altogether in the summer. But the early autumn was becoming cool enough where she didn’t sweat so much when she smoked or ate for that matter. She tapped the end of the cigarette on the pack, so every gram of nicotine goodness was compacted. She always enjoyed that Don Johnson doing that on the Miami Vice. He always made such a ritual of it. Nowadays he’d be drawn and quartered for even suggesting that smoking could be stylish, even fun. Namby Pamby Bitches. She stared at the cigarette reminiscing about those days. For a second, she felt she had popped back there to 1984. Momma wasn’t one to usually let nostalgia hit her so hard but, in this situation, it seemed there was no real future, and a sense of no future is a breeding ground for nostalgia. Choking nostalgia that makes one wonder where all moments that made memories ended and the insufferable present began. Momma didn’t like this analysis when her thoughts at this hour usually revolved around whether there was a Hot Pocket in the freezer for lunch or not.

She shook her head quickly to reset her brain and lit the cigarette. She inhaled deeply. Fuck you Dr. Woz. She thought if she could smoke in front of the TV she would never move. Her son may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she could see the legitimacy in this rule though she could never admit it. Momma did not like to ever admit she was wrong.

She gazed out at the parking lot which was only half filled. Even in this transient place people seemed gainfully employed. This was a good sign for nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning except for that car, it never moved. Either the owner was on vacation or dead in the bathtub. She laughed at the thought then stopped on the thought. Her dying in the bathtub was more likely these days than a vacation. She took another drag. That flavor, that sensation, it felt so good, it perked her up, something had to. Ever since they moved, she felt uprooted having to follow along. Her son’s argument that life would be better here was enough for her. She always had a firm belief in the grass being greener and well, the grass had become quite brown with their previous situation. She wasn’t going to stay in the same city with that bitch ex-common law wife of his no matter what. Ever since she had to move in with them after the death of her husband things quickly went downhill. The proof was empirical that she was the cause for the ruin in an already precarious relationship, but she never saw it that way. To her there was someone else to blame and Momma’s internal polling numbers pointed to the bitch ex-common law wife as the way to go. The thought of crossing paths with her ever again made her head hurt. She had to keep the violent feelings of...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 7.3.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-7166-8 / 9798350971668