Book Excerpts
An Excerpt from the Novel The Codger and the Sparrow by Scott Semegran
1.
A wise old woman once told Hank, “The only two women who should ever bear witness to your pecker are your mother—when you’re a baby—and your wife—when you’re married. Anyone else is just asking for trouble.” This was, of course, Hank’s grandmother who told him this, although he could never think of the reason why she told him this. He often thought of this nugget of wisdom—more so now that he was becoming as old as dirt, day by day—whenever he had thoughts of other women besides his mother or his wife. Both were gone now—his mother and his wife—as well as his grandmother. But whenever he thought about a woman, he thought of what his Irish grandmother told him.
Trouble? he chuckled to himself. He rolled the question around in his mouth along with the last swig of Whiskey Old-Fashioned. Hogwash, he concluded.
Hank sat at the bar of his favorite neighborhood hangout, Home Runs—cigarette smoke in the air, one barstool occupied down the bar from him, distorted karaoke singers serenading strangers in another room out of sight, yellowed ceiling tiles sagging. Like a gargoyle, Hank slumped on his stool, his fists like boulders on either side of his empty lowball glass, tufts of white hair below his weathered knuckles. Jack the bartender wiped bar glasses with a dish rag. He was at least half Hank’s age, twice as tall with twice as much hair, but that didn’t bother Hank. He liked the guy despite his youth and nice head of hair. When Jack was a teenager, his hair was long and shiny and all the girls at his high school swooned over his hair. When Hank was in high school, all the girls swooned over the hair of the four lads from Liverpool, the Beatles, which was nothing like his own military-style buzz cut.
“Want another?” Jack said to him.
Hank nodded. “Yup.”
“Coming up,” Jack said, grabbing a bottle of top-shelf whiskey from behind him, then beginning his ritual of concocting Hank’s favorite drink: Whiskey Old-Fashioned. He mixed fresh simple syrup stirred with an ounce and a half of whiskey, a dash of orange bitters in a stirring glass, orange peel rubbed along the rim of the drinking glass, one amarena cherry with a dribble of syrup, and a single large ice cube in it. There was only one problem: Jack’s jar of amarena cherries was empty, and he knew Hank despised maraschino cherries, a lowly replacement for the rich darker berry. Hatred wasn’t a strong enough word for Hank’s ill feelings toward maraschino cherries. “I’ve got to get a new jar from the back,” he told Hank, thumbing toward the storeroom. “And I’ve something to ask you when I get back. Okay?”
Hank nodded. Jack quickly vanished.
But Hank wasn’t alone.
An Excerpt from the Novel The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island by Scott Semegran
1.
The first time I experienced real, life-threatening danger was in the seventh grade. I may have been in real danger before the seventh grade, but if I was, then I don’t remember it. That’s the funny thing about memories. Some memories are these delicate, wispy things like dandelion seeds caught in a breeze—maybe sprouting someday, maybe they simply vanish. Other memories are these technicolor, vibrant things filled with music and smells and emotions—powerful and evocative mental cinema. Looking back, a lot of my memories of my friends in the seventh grade are living, vibrant things. I didn’t need danger to make these memories of my friends stick in my brain. But there was once this remarkable time with them that you won’t believe. When I finally tell you the whole story, you’ll most likely say, Nah! That didn’t happen. But it did. It really did.
Before I tell you about the time me and my friends got ourselves into some real danger when we were in middle school, first let me explain about myself and where I grew up. My name is William Flynn. I’m from a little suburban town outside of San Antonio, Texas called Converse. This town’s sensibility was more strip mall than metropolis, but it did have the basic necessities for middle school kids: a dollar cinema (cheap flicks and all-you-can-eat popcorn), an arcade (with our faves Donkey Kong and Joust), a comic book store (Marvel titles more than DC), a skating rink, plenty of convenience stores, and the like. What more could a kid want? Back then, my parents called me Billy—a nickname that referred to my uncle who died during the Vietnam War—but I preferred my real name, William (even more so since Bloody Billy came into my life, but more on that later). My birth parents divorced when I was a baby, so I grew up mostly with my mom, Pam, and her new husband, Steve. He was a nice enough guy, although mostly quiet when it came to me. He loved my mom very much. That was obvious by the way he kissed and hugged her. I don’t think he cared for me too much since he rarely acknowledged my presence back then, not even with a pat on the shoulder.
Anyway, the middle school in Converse, Texas that I attended was called Franklin D. Roosevelt Middle School—a better president I couldn’t think of for a school moniker. Funny thing was, it was rare to have a school in the South named after a Northerner like Roosevelt, especially a liberal do-gooder like F. D. R. Most of the schools in and around San Antonio were named after Confederate war heroes like Robert E. Lee or Jefferson Davis. Don’t ask me why. It’s just an observation. But fortunately for me and my friends, we went to Franklin D. Roosevelt Middle School (Now, don’t get me wrong, the name was great, but the outside looked more like a state penitentiary than an institution of learning). Most of the kids had a parent who worked at the nearby Air Force Base: Randolph. And because F. D. R. had students whose families were from all over the United States, the kids were all the possible shades of human beings, from pale white to middling brown to dark black. In the mid-1980s, it must’ve been a rare thing having a school population like that in Texas. Looking back, I can’t imagine my childhood any other way. It’s where I made my best friends, my posse, mis compadres. Their names were Randy Moss, Brian Johnson, and Miguel Gonzalez.
An Excerpt from the Novel To Squeeze a Prairie Dog: An American Novel by Scott Semegran
1.
When J. D. Wiswall arrived outside the building of the Texas Department of Unemployment and Benefits in downtown Austin, Texas, he already needed to go to the bathroom, his bladder full from drinking thirty-two ounces of soda during lunch—something that sounded good at the time but had become an unfortunate inconvenience. He was excited to start his first day of work but his excitement had gotten the best of him. He simply ate and drank too much, something he was prone to do all too often.
Dang it! he thought. Even when he cussed in his mind, his cussing was toned down as if someone might hear him.
He ascended the granite steps to the building entrance with trepidation, his left hand over his gut, his right hand clinching his lunch box full of afternoon snacks: roasted pecans, pecan rolls, and pecan pralines. He loved pecans; they fondly reminded him of his rural hometown: Brady, Texas. Inside the great, granite building, the mustiness of decades of public service molested his nostrils, but he was determined to relieve his bladder before starting his new job. He approached the only person he thought could help him: a security guard. The black fellow in uniform manned a desk—holding a telephone receiver to the side of his weary head with one hand and supporting his body with the other hand planted on the desktop—and spotted J. D. as he frantically approached him. The security guard’s name was Emmitt, as stated on a name tag pinned to his starched white shirt. Emmitt raised a patient index finger to J. D., indicating silently to wait for him to get off the phone. J. D. danced impatiently. Soon, Emmitt hung up.
“Can I help you?” he said, flashing a pleasant, toothy smile.
“Is there a restroom I can use?” J. D. said, still dancing a urination two-step.
An Excerpt from the Novel Sammie & Budgie by Scott Semegran
Chapter One
I discovered that my boy, Sammie--my son, my first child, my spawn, a chip off my ol' block, my heart and my soul--could see the future, that he could tell me what was going to happen before it happened, when he was in the third grade. I discovered this by dumb luck. Now, what I'm about to tell you, I'm telling you in the strictest of confidence. I mean, I'm telling you because I feel you need to know and I just don't go around telling everyone in the goddamn world my business because, well, it's my business; but I like you and that's all that matters. My boy, Sammie, was considered special by all accounts, not just special because I learned he could see the future, but special for two reasons: 1) he went through intensive testing and was designated as a child with special education needs by the State of Texas and 2) he's special because I said he's special. A father knows what a father knows, and I knew, without a doubt, that my boy was special. It's true.
Even before Sammie Boy was born, I had a feeling he was special (I call him Sammie Boy all the time--even now--because that's what I like to call him). When he was still living in the cramped efficiency apartment that was his mother's womb, he would kick and punch all over the place in a manner that made me feel like he was communicating with me in some type of fetal Morse Code. His mother would always tell me, 'Play our baby some music because I've read that playing our baby music while it is still in utero helps its intelligence.' So, I would do that. I'd get a Walkman or iPod or whatever was around, I'd put some classical music on, and place the headphones around his mother's overgrown stomach, and play the music loud so Sammie Boy could hear it. And whenever I would start the music, he would start kicking and punching all over the goddamn place, more punching when he disliked the music and less punching when he seemed to like it. Whenever I played any pop music, good ol' Sammie Boy seemed to hate it. He'd start punching and kicking and jabbing and stomping at such a furious rate that I thought he'd bust out of his mother's stomach like one of those hideous alien babies in the Alien movies. I played him all kinds of music to see what he would like: classical music, rock music, hip-hop music, country music, and even movie soundtracks. But the type of music that I discovered that he liked the most was jazz music, particularly John Coltrane songs and albums. He loved the shit out of some John Coltrane music--all the punching and kicking and stomping and jabbing and head-butting would cease the minute this music started. It really did, especially when I played the album Blue Train.
But what really made me aware of the fact that my boy Sammie was special was the day I picked him up from elementary school and he told me his after-school counselor was going to hurt herself in a serious way. I thought that to be a very strange thing for him to say, since Sammie didn't particularly have a malicious bone in his body, but was unsettling even more since my boy wasn't known to tell lies. Outside the school, out in the back where the playground and basketball court stretched beyond the portable buildings, I watched all the kids run and play while his counselor stood alone, keeping an eye on the children. It was a warm, humid day and the kids swarmed around the counselor like excited bees circling a sunflower.
I knelt next to my boy, placing my hands on his arms, and braced him gently, when I said, "What do you mean she will hurt herself?" Now, you have to understand, my boy Sammie was the cutest kid you will ever lay your eyes on, with big, round, brown eyes and a round face, tussled brown hair that never seemed to keep the style it started with in the morning, and a smile that would make a serial killer renounce his depravity and perform cartwheels in a field of daisies. Even in this serious situation, where I would have to compose myself to find answers, I had to fight the urge to pinch his cheeks and giggle. He was just that cute. "She looks fine to me," I said.
Sammie Boy looked over where the counselor stood, his sparkling, brown eyes examining her, the lids closing slightly as he peered at her, as if making out what her next move might be, and resolute sadness appeared on his cute, little face. "Daddy, can I ask you a question?" he said.
"Of course, my boy. You can ask me a question."
"Will you be mad at me if I tell you the truth?"
An Excerpt from the Book Boys by Scott Semegran
I slid the key into the dead bolt of the door to my apartment, turned the door knob, and in we went, to-go containers from the P.W. in our hands, smiles on our faces when we saw Mr. Whiskers waiting for us by the door. He always waited for me by the door. He was a good cat.
"Hey buddy!" I said, leaning down to scratch his head. He purred loudly. "I bet you're hungry."
I turned the lights on and we made our way to the coffee table, setting our food on it, plopping on the floor, our dining area. Alfonso noticed a gang of slaughtered roaches on the floor next to the couch, still twitching, almost dead, flopping on the carpet. Mr. Whiskers pounced on them, jabbed at them for the last time, then promptly ignored them. He lost interest for some reason.
This was a typical haul for Mr. Whiskers. When he was on the prowl, he liked to crouch low to the floor, digging his claws into the carpet, his tail slithering side-to-side like a snake easing through a forest, his eyes narrowing into focus, his whiskers spreading out, stiff, quivering, waiting for bugs. The roaches made their way from the sliding patio door to under my couch and my dutiful cat would watch them, the bugs tip-toeing around dust bunnies and cigarette lighters and waded up hamburger wrappers and sticky bent straws. My apartment complex was surrounded by oak and cedar trees, straddling creek beds that fed Town Lake a couple of blocks away, making fertile ground for bugs and rats and mice and snakes. To say my complex was infested with vermin was almost a stretch (almost) but it was not unusual for roaches to make their way daily under the sliding door from the rotting wooden deck behind my apartment, and that was where Mr. Whiskers would lay, crouched on the hearth of the fireplace next to the back door, his eyes aimed at the bottom of the door where the sliding rails were, looking for tasty bugs, waiting to pounce on them and rip their legs off. He was an effective insect exterminator. The roaches under the couch attempted to make it to the kitchen like starving idiots. Mr. Whiskers wound up his hind legs, sprang into action, jabbing his front right leg under the couch, and pulled the roaches out, his claws ripping the roaches open in one swift motion. As the roaches flip-flopped on the carpet, Mr. Whiskers licked himself clean, setting his paw on the roaches whenever they bounced around too erratically, keeping them in check until their demise. He would leave the bugs to die, alone, in the middle of the living room--or actually, Alfonso's temporary bedroom--as a symbol of his love to me and my new roommate. Fucking gross.