STORM of PASSION

Storm of Passion
a short story

by

Dustin Adrian Rhodes

Copyright 2011 by Dustin Adrian Rhodes. All Rights Reserved.

Within each of us lies a storm of passion.

Tuesday Morning

Climbing from the Greyhound bus, his combat boots made a thud as they hit the severely crumbled pavement. He welcomed the sight, as he took in the view of the quaint town, surprised to see during the ten years he had served in the army, the quiet rural town had not changed. There was Grover's Drug and Gifts, The Palladium Theater, JC Penney's, Van Clive’s Ladies Wear; Stocker's Shoe Store with the same faded Red Goose sign. On the opposite side of the street, the volunteer fire station, Fuch's Funeral Home (pronounced FOX, why they had not legally changed the family name was beyond anyone’s comprehension), the Piggly Wiggly Market, the Baptist Church, and of course, Morrison's Cafe. Down the center of town ran an unmarked, two lane asphalt street. Not much of a place to look at; there was a remote chance Norman Rockwell might have been inspired to capture the eccentric town on canvas, had he known of its existence.

There was no hero's ticker-tape parade, no marching band or anyone for that matter to welcome him. A sleepy little town where the greatest excitement came from guffawing at Beulah, old man Howard's milking cow; which frequently escaped the pasture to sashay down Main Street. The old saying “there’s no place like home” was true, because honestly, there was no place like this town, but it was home, his home and he was glad to be back.

Strolling along the empty sidewalk, he sensed a bit of nostalgia as he caught the scent of bacon frying and baking hand rolled biscuits drifted in the air, luring his stomach to Morrison's Café.

A jingling sound greeted him as he pushed through the heavy glass door, at Morrison’s. Looking up, he spotted a small brass bell attached to the top of the door. He smiled to himself.

“I declare, as I live and breath, if it ain't little Jaime Duncan,” exclaimed, a portly woman, as she charged toward him with outstretched pudgy arms, squeezing him in an enthusiastic bear hug. He swore his ribs were bruised. Madge had not changed one iota, with her white waitress uniform, silvery blue hair coiffed like a colossal cotton candy ball on top her chubby jovial face. Swirling in a fragrant bouquet of rose water and Aqua Net, which had him wrinkling his nose and detecting a recent addition to her repertoire, could it be Ben Gay? As she hugged him, he was certain her overly made up lacquered face imprint would be permanently embedded on his shirt collar and there was no mistaking the huge false eyelashes tickling the side of his neck.

“Madge…” Pulling from her arms, he held her soft hands and scanned the woman from head to toe. “Just as lovely as always,” planting a fond peck on her flushing cheek.

“Oh you,” she playfully swatted him with a dish towel, “Still the charmer.” Drawing him into her voluptuous bosom, she forced yet another strangulating embrace. “It's so good seeing you again boy, welcome home.” Releasing him, she dabbed her leaking eyes with a towel, “Oh dear lord, where are my manners, let's get you settled. Hon, would you like a table or a booth?” Her contagious smile radiated with all the warmth and brilliance of a dazzling halogen bulb.

“How ‘bout a booth?”

Jaime had forgotten how friendly and warm folks from a small town could be. Hazy memories of his childhood began to come into focus, growing sharper and more vivid in his mind. During the bus trip, he had needlessly worried, after all these years. Concerned he might not feel like he fit in, but all that was vanishing. Scanning the cafe, Madge dragged him by the hand to an available booth. In the flurry, he recognized smiling faces and honest to goodness genuine waves from folks he thought he had long forgotten. Resurfacing memories, sweet lovable Madge, being home, all of it was a tad overwhelming for this small town boy.