a novel fragment: The Goddens Dependents prologue.

This is the prologue of one of my several "planned novels".  I am sometimes amazed at how cold and cynical my writing voice really seems; I'm not such a butthole in real life, but c'est la vie.  

Pivotal to the whole family's story is the unexpected pregnancy of Maya, the eldest daughter.  A set of circumstances is set off that does them all immeasurable good.  

She was wearing big old black sneakers with sensible non-slip bottoms, and the rest of her Chicken Place uniform except for the hat; this is as she walked down the road, still and having always been a living breathing wet dream of a woman, every bit, from her broom straw hair to her little death white feet with the toenails painted red.

She walked along Jefferson Road East, along a lonely empty stretch of the country.

A deputy came along, slowing his police car to a death crawl before lowering his passenger window to say hello, but it wasn’t saying hello really but kind of a casual interrogation.

Don’t think for one second those guys were allowed to pick up walkers from the roadside, but here he was anyway, as real and stupid as anything, not knowing yet he was already ensnared and some hidden repressed part of him was already daydreaming about very hard sex, nudity, sweat, and the exchange of fluids between the two: the walker and the innocent deputy.

She was walking to her job she told him, walking to pick up a paycheck for her family of deadbeats, not in the hopes of rescuing herself, but kind of a treadwater hope of just living with a few extra cans of peas and beans in the house, and nothing much else after the adults had at her wage, which they could claim as some sort of rent, or maybe even, stretching decency, recompense for years of care during her childhood, though she was then as she is during the time of our action today: not a demanding soul, not that, capable of living on almost anything, like a perpetual motion machine that men couldn’t help but stare at and want to touch or hold in their own hands.

But in about two minutes, she was in the car, and it did not take long before it was one lying on top of another, and the proverbial spider had came to the fly, and not the other way, because now the twenty-something deputy was in her family’s orbit, and might become known in some way to her father, and all that interaction was like riding with molotov cocktails or playing catch with live hand grenades.

He did not know it, but he was the trapped one, he was the one unknowingly stepping into a figurative grave, doing all but pulling great handfuls of dirt onto himself with a cheerful grin; he was working above her fitfully, as caught-up as someone could be, and it only had been a few minutes since he had first laid eyes on her. Time like that was irrelevant, and a stupid heart could not count the beats anyway.

He had feverishly pumped his orgasm into her twice in the few minutes before the radio blared about a Civil War statue damaged by an out of control truck, and they were asking for him by name and he was rolling around top of her, grabbing at his trousers, not even bothering to ask her to leave the car, and maybe later part of him hoped she knew they were talking about him on the radio, rebuking him like the voice of God, because he was off his beat, not in the right time at the right place for civil order.

However, he had been in the proper time and place for devilment.

As some say of indulging in those sorts of passions, “a minute on the hips...”