Cornflake Girl: Guest Fiction from Lance

It’s Monday, and I’m sharing my space with my friend Lance. He describes his blog as:

Taking on my life and the written word…bare knuckled, with a soundtrack.

Lance works hard, writing, reading, digging deep to find the heart of his stories. Like me, he’s got a lot of fiction plates spinning, and my favorite of his dishes is The Ballad of Helene Troy, the story of a punk rock ingenue in the filthy world of the corporate recording industry.

Today, though he’s sharing the back story to a new project, a father and daughter tale.

Cornflake Girl

The hotel waiter presented him a bowl of Raisin Bran and tall, thin glass of an orange beverage. Paying more attention to his book, High Fidelity by Nick Hornby, he took a swig and savored the alcohol mixed with the juice. The waiter was preoccupied with a tall blonde who appeared upset. His book was new and the pages were stuff. He picked up the damp cocktail napkin the mimosa sat upon and bookmarked page twenty-nine. He approached the waiter and audibly annoyed young woman with caution. He caught the last part of their conversation. The blonde’s blue eyes narrowed as she voiced her complaint.

“Why is God’s name would you not have to pay for a mimosa when ya check-in or when ya go the pool but ya gotta when come to the café? Think ’bout that? Does it make any sense at all?”

Her tan arms made a circular motion and blonde curls bounced around her dimpled cheeks. She was remarkable in her young beauty. Her accent sounded familiar. Slow, twangy, and full of character. He pulled a ten-dollar bill from his back left jeans pocket and injected himself into the situation

“How many mimosas will this buy, sir?”

They looked at him with incredulousness. The waiter was an older Hispanic man with bushy eyebrows and a leathered complexion. He showed no emotion but took the money and mumbled “tres señor”, then walked to the bar. The woman smiled and her face changed. Like a sunrise, light came across her round face, illuminating her eyes and causing her dimples to shine. She smiled and mouthed “thank you.” He smiled back and responded.

“No one should be denied alcohol on vacation.”

She flicked her tongue across her full, pink lips and looked around him to see where he came from. She pulled golden strands of stray hair behind her small ears. She seemed to increase in prettiness as he stood in front of her. Her words fell from her mouth with a country ease.

“Thank you. I thought those mimosas were free everywhere. I’m not a bum, I swear, I just don’t like to carry a purse, ‘specially when I wear these shorts.”

He chuckled and looked her over. Blue bikini straps shared space on her sun-kissed shoulders with a yellow tank top. White shorts hugged her thighs, revealing her curvy figure. He guessed she was a few years younger than his twenty-four. She looked around him.

“Raisin bran, huh? You don’t look eighty-years-old. I’m more of a cornflake girl. Well, cornflakes with whole lotta sugar. Does that book have pictures?”

He liked her teasing. She was gorgeous, young, and oozed personality. He was smitten. They laughed together. Her guffaw was fun.

“It’s a new book for people who like music way too much.”

He looked around to see if anyone was with her. Someone this pretty and funny had to have a boyfriend or a husband, he thought to himself.

“So, I’m on vacation by myself. What about you?”

The last few words of his third question drug out, allowing his American southern accent to show. He braced for her answer.

“I’m with my family. But we have an agreement. They leave me alone and I don’t hope they drown in the ocean by the end of the week. Will you let me pay you back for the mimosas later and we can talk about music?”

He felt high, even though he’d only had one drink of an alcoholic beverage. He extended his right hand, and introduced himself.

The car door opened and the dinging noise startled him from his memory. His sixteen-year-old daughter, Violet, threw her gym bag into the backseat and bounced into the passenger side. Her sigh was loud. Her natural prettiness and deep blue eyes were offset by a sassy tone to her voice and body language.

“Dad, I had the worst day so, yeah, not discussing but, let’s note, volleyball coaches are stupid.”

She placed her bare feet on the dashboard and sighed again.

“I vote tacos tonight. I’m willing to help you make them but you’ve got to stop and buy sour cream. We are so out of sour cream.”