American Perception: It's a ...

By Doug Herring

On The Road for the next generation. Jack and McGillicuddy travel the American landscape in search of the lost middle ground of the American Dream. This isn't a book about a character trying to find themselves. The characters know who they are, but it is unfortunate that America no longer does...oh...and there's a Pope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Herring
• Release date: Feb 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310610875

Doug Herring

Doug Herring was born in Decatur, GA and grew up in South Florida and Anderson, SC respectively. He attended college at High Point University where he obtained a BA in Theatre Arts. While there, he made the acquaintance of Jack Cheese and McGillicuddy Reeks. He counts himself lucky to have survived...Currently he lives in Texas with his two cats, Harley and Quinn. American Perception: It's a... is his first book.

Book preview

American Perception:

It’s a…

By

Doug Herring & McGillicuddy

Copyright 2014 by Doug Herring & McGillicuddy

Smashwords Edition

Special thanks to cover art design by KH

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Chapter 1

Panic gripped the streets of Rome. Pedestrians dove for cover and cars swerved out of the

way as a white Mercedes-Benz M-Class sped dangerously through the streets. A middle-aged American couple stood by the sidelines and watched in total shock as the car went careening past. A large glass box was attached to the back of it, and the tourists could barely make out the image of a man inside. The man was wearing a long flowing robe and a tall cylindrical hat.

Goodness! The woman said as her hands rose to her face in wonderment. Was that the new Pope?

Pope or not. Her husband grumbled. He’s a lousy driver!

Man, I told you this car was fast! I just knew it! Jack yelled from the white leather, gold trimmed chair.

Dude, you don’t have to yell. The intercom is working just fine. McGillicuddy replied as he tried to navigate the Pope-mobile through the tight avenues of Vatican City.

Sorry! It’s just the sirens behind us are so loud! shouted Jack.

McGillicuddy looked into the side mirror and sighed as the line of Polizia following them seemed to have doubled in the last five minutes. His attention was suddenly brought back into focus to what was happening before him as a helicopter swooped right over the front of the vehicle

Six Months Ago....

It was 10pm at night, and Jack was losing patience with the constant barrage of traffic as he made his way along the treacherous 285 loop. He had a soft spot in his heart for Atlanta, but if he never had to drive here again it would be alright with him. It didn’t help matters that he’d already been on the road for fifteen hours straight and the multitude of caffeine pills he’d gobbled along the way seemed now to be working against him. He was feeling edgy. In another few seconds he would have no choice but to begin hurling projectiles at the other drivers. Fortunately, he’d built up a rather impressive array of half-filled water bottles and crumpled Red Bull cans that littered the floorboard like a recycle bin. Indeed, the slow moving Buick in front of him was increasingly feeding his wrath. If they slam on their breaks just one more time....

Suddenly, a large green sign loomed up in his headlights. This was his exit. With a sigh of relief he flipped on his blinker and eased over in the lane. Via con Dios, you Swine! he yelled out the window, shaking his fist and laughing maniacally. But then, everything went wrong. He turned his eyes back towards the off ramp and gaped in horror as he saw what appeared to be a barricade halfway up the ramp. What the hell? Was the exit closed? There had been no signs. He was sure of it. But it didn’t matter anyway. He was locked in now. There was no turning back. Slowly, he increased pressure on the accelerator and braced himself for the impact. The words of a popular C.W. McCall song echoed through his brain.

"Smash the gate doing 98 let them truckers roll...."

But then nothing happened. One second the gates were there, and then they weren’t. First there is no mountain... he thought as the gears in his brain switched from Convoy to Donovan. What could this mean? Was it all just a hallucination? There was no time to ponder this question fully, as Jack realized he was still hurtling along at an absurd speed. Up ahead, a pair of traffic lights was rapidly approaching. Fortunately, they were green. A right turn was out of the question. At his speed, he would likely shoot right over the median and into an already waiting line of cars. Making a left, he would at least have the added protection of the guard rail, just so long as he didn’t go tearing through it, and tumble back down onto the highway below.

He braced for the G’s and wrenched the wheel left. The back end started to spin around, but came to rest against the rail, providing the added benefit of slowing him down. He kept his foot on the accelerator and careened across the overpass and into the streets of downtown Atlanta. There were no sirens as of yet, but just to play it safe he took a few twists and turns before finally pulling into a convenience store parking lot. He parked around the side, got out, went in and purchased two packs of smokes and a case of beer. Getting back in the car, he lit up and cracked open a can. The adrenaline rush was fading now. He could finally relax and try to remember just what it was that had brought him here. What was this trip all about?

One sip of the cold brew was like a refreshing blast of water in the face. McGillicuddy. Yes, it was McGillicuddy. He had come to find him. They hadn’t seen each other in ten years, not since Jack had loaded up his car and driven the cross-country trek out to LA determined to seek fame and fortune in the glittering City of Angels. But the two had made a pact, a grim, solemn drunken oath, that if things didn’t work out, if ten years passed by and they were still struggling to get by, then it would be time to cash it all in and head for Europe with a couple of backpacks. It seemed crazy at the time, but it was also oddly comforting, serving as a kind of back door emergency plan if life got too weird. And for a while, it served its purpose. In the struggle for daily survival, it was nice to have a Plan B to take the edge off the anxiety.

But as time passed, its importance had become more and more apparent. After ten years of securing no more than a few random extra parts in third rate films, Jack was more than ready to put Plan B into effect. And so, he felt certain, was McGillicuddy. He pulled out his phone and found the last voice mail he’d saved, the one that had brought him back in search of his friend. He pressed the button and McGillicuddy’s voice floated out of the tiny speaker.

Hey man..... (sigh) I don’t know. It’s crazy. It’s all too crazy. It’s all dick. Hmmm....yeah. I’m drunk. Not just drunk, but.....remember the old days, man? It was so much simpler. Good times....good times....Hmmmmm. I don’t know. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. The world’s gone crazy, brother. Everyone’s so angry. No one listens......I don’t know, man. I think....I think it’s time.....Time to do something.....Ah perception.....it’s a motherfucker. (click)

Jack had been passed out at the time of the call. The next morning he’d listened to it and called back but gotten no answer. So, he packed up his car, scored the necessary supplies and hit the road. He’d tried McGillicuddy a few more times along the way, but every time the call went straight to voice mail. The statements made seemed to indicate that McGillicuddy had reached the Plan B conclusion himself. Either that or suicide. But Jack wouldn’t believe that. They were champions of the highest order. Men of Action.

He tried calling McGillicuddy again, but no dice. The phone was on, though. It was ringing. That was something. He searched his contacts for Karen and Evan’s number. Friends from the before time, the long long ago. Friends who were still in the area. Surely they must know something.

Evan answered on the second ring. Yes, it turned out they did know something. McGillicuddy had checked himself into the psych ward at DeKalb General.

What the fuck? Jack asked in disbelief. What happened? Was he babbling incoherently or something?

No. That’s the weird thing. He seemed perfectly fine. Evan replied, and then paused. Well, I mean, there was the whole coffee table incident, but-

Coffee table incident?

Hold on, I better step outside. Karen’s still pretty pissed about it.

He still owes me twenty bucks for that fucking chess set! A female voice yelled.

See what I mean. Jack heard the sound of a door opening and closing, then Evan continued. It was last weekend. He came over and we were drinking and doing a few lines. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then, suddenly, he got this manic look in his eye. He stood up and shouted ‘It’s all dick!’ and with one fluid motion he flipped over our coffee table. We’d been playing on a glass chess set and the whole thing shattered, pieces flying everywhere. We have to wear our shoes in the living room. There are still shards of glass in the carpet.

Weird.

I know. I didn’t really think anything of it, at first. But then the next day he called me up. Apologized for the chess set and said he was gonna check himself into the psych ward. He hung up before I could ask what was up.

Hmmmm. Jack took another swig of his beer and glanced at his watch. How late do you think visiting hours run?

Gotta be over by now. Are you in town? You can crash with us and try him in the morning.

Jack shook his head. I don’t think this can wait. It sounds serious. I’ll let you know when I find out more.

Okay. Jack hung up and stared ahead at the brick wall of the store in front of him. There were too many questions, and not nearly enough answers. But that was about to change. Jack polished off his beer, tossed it into the backseat and cranked up the engine. Thirty minutes later he was pulling into the parking lot of DeKalb General. He found a dimly lit space, jumped out and began rummaging through the trunk. Ah, there they were. A nice fresh pair of medical scrubs from that public service announcement he’d been in about gonorrhea. He’d played Doctor # 5. No lines, but he got to keep the wardrobe, or at least he’d assumed so since no one had immediately asked for it back. He donned the outfit, tossed out his smoke and went inside.

The bright lights stabbed into his eyes like razor blades and it was a good ten minutes before he could open them without cursing. Slowly, everything around him began to take shape. One of the items taking shape was a shapely young blonde nurse in pink scrubs standing before him.

Are you alright, Doctor? She asked.

Yes. Yes, I am. Just a touch of the flu, I suspect. But it’s okay. I’m a doctor. He pulled himself together and got a bearing on his surroundings. Tell me, young lady. Where is the Psych Ward?

It’s on the third floor. Here, let me take you. She grabbed his arm and he willingly let her lead him into the elevator. They rode up to the third floor in silence and as the doors opened she indicated the sign pointing left. It’s just down that hallway. You can’t miss it. Is there anything I can get you? She held her silky white hand to his forehead. Funny, you don’t feel hot.

Look’s can be deceiving. he mumbled, and pulled out a small notepad. Yes, there is something you can get me. I’ll need at least two pints of ether. And maybe some wood alcohol, if you can spare it. She nodded and started off down the hallway. Oh, and some empty gel capsules! he shouted after her.

He found the psych ward and approached the outer desk. A large, possibly sassy black woman was minding the store.

Excuse me, nurse. he said.

Doctor. she corrected him.

I’m sorry, Dr.- He glanced at her name tag and did a double take. Was he reading that right? Negro?

What did you call me?!?

I’m sorry! It’s my eyes! The lights!

She burst out laughing. I’m just playing with you, son. It’s pronounced ‘Neegra.’ Now, what can I do for you?

Jack wasn’t sure that pronunciation was better, but shrugged. I’m looking for a patient that checked himself in here last weekend. It’s imperative that I find him. He’s far too dangerous for this place. I must get him to the local asylum at once!

Oh dear. What’s his name?

McGillicuddy Reeks.

She searched her database. I’m very sorry, doctor. It says here he checked himself out yesterday morning.

Cazart! Jack exclaimed and slammed his fist on the counter.

Dr. Negro picked up the phone. Should I call the police?

No! No need. I’m his doctor. It’s best if I approach him first. Less of a scene that way. Thank you.

He spun around and headed back towards the elevator. Well, there went that lead. There was no telling where he was now. He took the lift back to the first floor and wandered back out to his car. A voice cried out behind him.

Doctor! Wait!!

He turned around and there was the pretty blonde nurse trailing after him with an arm load of supplies. Here you go! she dumped the items into his hands and caught her breath. Is there anything else? she panted.

No. No, I believe this will about do it. Thank you very much, young lady. You’re a service to your profession.

She lit up like a Christmas tree and bobbed her head. Jack opened the trunk and dumped the goods into it, saving one bottle of ether. He hopped into the driver’s seat, lit a smoke and waved at the now puzzled young nurse as he peeled out of the parking lot. At a stoplight, he reached into the backseat and pulled out a towel. He tossed the towel on the floorboard, then opened up the pint and poured some of the ether on top of it. The fumes hit him like a slap in the face. He screwed the cap back on and inhaled deeply. Ah, that’s better, he thought.

Now he could think clearly