Critique of "Whippoorwill"

*There was a lot of great images in this piece:

“I was dusty and road-weary, had touched the shores of California…”

“…white and red flames curving upon black miles…”

“I rounded the truck and saw Gade standing just within the wooded area, staring up into the sky, singing his Hank Williams ballad to a three-quarter moon.”

“Gabe was offering something up into the high darkness.”

*Gabe felt like a developed and interesting character: I like this feeling of him as “He drove and smoked and kept largely silent.” And the description of his wedding, “Only time I ever wore an ironed tee shirt.” His peculiarities give him life.

*The narrator however, I felt was a little vague and abstract, perhaps that was intended? I wanted to know about why he dreaded the “Got a girlfriend” inquiry. Was that solely because he was afraid the truckers were coming onto him? I also wanted to know more about this line: “Twenty-three years seemed vast and paltry, and I wished I were already home.” Why is that?

*Also, I wanted to know why this narrator chose to recall this memory… two decades later. Is there a connection to his present life. Where is he going with it?

Thelma Dudley

Thelma Dudley was born in Savannah Georgia to Phil and Judy Dudley. She was the oldest of six children and although she grew up with her father's insistent pressures for her to take over the family butcher shop, she dreamed of becoming a singer on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera house in New York City.

Mozart, Verdi, and Puccini were foreign names to her growing up, sounding more like pasta dishes than anything else--yet their music worked their way into her brain long bfore their names had any significance to her.

It all stated the summer of her sophomore year in high school, when she had to work the back of the butcher shop, running and i and out of the freezers, wearing athick winter jacket whilst her friends ran around outside barefoot in shorts and tanks. She found an old radio in the back to play to keep time from jolting to a stop, unfortunately or fortunately, the only station she could get reception from, way back in the freezer was 97.5--the only classical radio station in all of Georgia.

Bank Robber Scene...

I focused more on the teller than the bank robber... and this is what came about...

***

“Stick ‘em…up”, the masked robber announced calmly pointing the black handgun to the teller’s window. The elderly teller with the coke bottle lenses and badly dyed mauve hair lifted her saggy arms to the sky exposeing her woolly armpits. She squinted, causing all the creases in her face to become more pronounced, and cocked her head forward, trying to get a better look at the robber. In all of her 28 years working in the Minot Savings Bank in North Dakota, she had often daydreamed of a stick up during the dull muggy summer afternoons, but she never thought she’d see the day when it would actually happen.
She imagined this scene—and several variations—dozens of times: the masked robber coming in, shouting to “Stick ‘em up”. She imagined panic that would spread across the bank lobby, the high pitched screams of the ladies and the deeper gasps of the gentlemen customers. Her repulsive manager, the round stuffy man whose shirt was usually drenched in sweat, would start to drip profusely splotches of salty sweat onto the cold concrete floor, while he remained tied to a chair in the locked safe.
In every fantasy of the bank robber scene, the old teller could never decide if she became the hero or if the robber took her hostage and she had to be rescued by a good Samaritan in the bank lobby. The teller felt a sensation of excitement pass through her, a feeling she hadn’t experienced since her late husband passed away more than ten years ago.
“What are you staring at you old hag?! Turn around!” the robber shouted.
She complied reluctantly. She didn’t want to miss any of the action to follow. The only thing she could make out now was the chipped brick wall in need of fresh coat of white paint. The woman heard the robber bark orders of filling the bags with money to the other teller. She was a younger woman who still held ambitions and hopes for making something of herself in the world. She nervously fumbled with the keys trying to locate the correct one to open the registers. Her face, normally glowing with a natural blush was now as white as the florescent lights shining down upon them from the ceiling.
The lobby was empty and the usual crowd of people that come on their lunch break had already returned to work. The bank was silent except for the clanging of the keys, the nervous breathing of the young teller, and the ticking of the clock. The older teller started to tap her foot impatiently.
“What the hell are you doing?” Stop that!”
She did immediately. She scanned the room without moving her neck and was reminded that she was within close reach of the security call button. Easily, she could have maneuvered herself without being noticed, to hit the button, yet the old woman didn’t budge. All her focus and frustrations were on the fact that she couldn’t see what was going on behind her.

In the Beginning...

This is my first entry for the required blog for Writing Fiction. I wrote a blog for several years, starting back in high school, but I stopped... mostly because I felt that my needs and purpose for writing there had long since changed... and so now, as this is a requirement of the class, perhaps it will motivate me to write again online...

~d.s.s