Highway 71
The Life and Times of Sean Quigley
by
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Arey and Jeremy’s nice home required a lot of money, and Arey supplemented her finances selling Plastovers: plastics for leftovers. In fact, inside of Arey’s two-door silver-green Mustang, one could barely sit for all the Plastovers scattered about. Arey held Plastover parties regularly. Lots of nice ladies would arrive, and Arey typically served an ample spread of tasty hors d’oeuvres and finger sandwiches. When visiting, Sean once missed a nice Plastover party because Jeremy took him fishing, overnight, on a boat, in the Pacific. The Plastover ladies were gathering just as Jeremy and Sean were leaving. Sean was noticeably distraught. As Jeremy loaded up the truck Sean went to his room to change into his fishing ensemble. He attempted a nautical look, enlisting his navy blue top, jute belt, and top siders. Just as the ladies were getting into the sumptuous finger sandwiches, Jeremy and Sean had to leave, motoring to docks on the far western side of San Diego. Sean was surprised to find the dock area smelly, damp, and wet. Though it was the middle of summer and it almost never rained in San Diego, it rained that night. And the humidity was high. Never before had Sean experienced such inclement weather in the area. “Jeremy it’s raining and cold. I have asthma you know. Maybe I should take a cab home.” Jeremy glared. “It’s a fishing dock. Were you expecting fresh carpet? Maybe you want to go home and eat finger food with the Plastover ladies!” “Arey did make some nice things. Maybe you could get your money back on my ticket. That way you could fish more often.” “Sean this is an opportunity for you to see how real men fish!” Sean lowered his head in disappointment only to become aghast at the docks surface, which was littered with bits of dead fish. Jeremy greeted several comrades, clearly salty old dogs. All boarded the old, plain, drab, damp, cold boat. Jeremy and Sean embarked to their damp, drab, musty cabin. Sean tried to open a porthole for ventilation. Jeremy laughed hysterically, saying the sea water would wash in. In no time Jeremy deserted Sean altogether, running off to a card party somewhere in the bowels of the boat. Sean was instructed to stay away from the card party. He deduced his options were the tacky cabin or the dive cafe upstairs, on the main level. He headed to the cafe, where the other minors were similarly stranded. As luck would have it, having planned for the worst, Sean had close to ten dollars in spending money. He noticed the snack bar sold a number of tasty things to eat, and he ordered several snacks: cashews, jerky, shrimp cocktail, doughnuts, and sodas. Sean didn’t really hit it off with the other kids present, but at least he had plenty to eat. An awkwardly long evening progressed and finally it was late enough for bed. The next morning Sean was startled awake. “Sean wake up! Wake Up!” Sean’s eyes squinted open to view Jeremy hurriedly dressing beneath the glaring light cast by the bare bulb on the cabin’s ceiling. He’d never before seen Jeremy quite this animated. It was as if the boat was on fire. Had he taken drugs at the card party? “Hurry up Sean! Get up! The fish are biting!” “Maybe you should bite them back!” “C’mon Sean the boat’s surrounded by a school!” “Stupid fish, tell them school’s out for summer!” Barely awake, Sean felt groggy and confused. He looked at his watch. It was just past four a.m. “I feel sick.” “Just get dressed! If you’re sick you can puke over the side of the boat!” Sean could tell it was going to be a fun, fun day! He struggled for a clear head as Jeremy scampered about like a kid on Christmas morning. Reluctantly Sean dragged himself out of bed and dressed. “Jeremy I feel queasy. Maybe I should stay in.” “Meet me up in the cafe!” Jeremy commanded, as he fled the cabin with his pole, and a wicker basket filled with smelly chunks of dead fish. Shortly Sean stumbled upstairs to the cafe, where he joined Jeremy at a table with a ragtag assortment of unshaven, swarthy, overweight, older men who spoke in flat, monotonous, gruff utterances. “I’m gonna get some fucking fish today,” said the man next to Sean. The air reeked of alcohol-laced body odor, cigarettes, fish, and cooked eggs. Another added, “The mother-fuckers better be biting.” Sean was at a loss for words but ordered pancakes with bacon and tried to blend in. Yet he felt increasingly nauseated. “Jeremy I think I might be sick.” Jeremy laughed and looked away. Finally Sean’s pancakes arrived, and he applied plenty of butter and syrup. He started to eat, hoping he’d feel better with a full stomach. But he felt worse and worse, and eventually had to get-up from the table. “I think I’m getting sick, excuse me.” All stared in disbelief and disdain, as Sean got up and crossed the cafe. He mounted the spiral metal stairway leading to the cabins below, and vomited all over the stairs. The stairway treads were made of iron gratings, and vomit seeped through to the hallway below. Sean shuffled to and fro the galley sink retrieving wad after wad of paper towels to clean up the mess. After wiping all the vomit away he retired to the cabin, where he slept and daydreamed the rest of the day. Sean was just a land lover.
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About the Book
A tongue-in-cheek, bittersweet, dark, comedic drama, Highway 71 describes the life and times of quirky, gay Sean Quigley. His ancestry is briefly sketched, and his childhood finds him intrinsically at odds with the lackluster monotony of his early, rural environment. The story chronicles the demise of a outwardly ideal, yet dysfunctional American family. As Sean's later years are chronicled, the book often resembles a memoir-like collection of short stories. The writing is like a snapshot of the people and places of his era, and his life also functions as a maypole for several adjacent dramas. Highway 71 ventures through alcoholism, anguish, bohemians, cancer, death, dreams, debauchery, grief, perseverance, small town life, senior citizens, surprises, work, and several interesting women, including: a wanton, wealthy, older, alcoholic aunt, a driven, working mother who loses her entire family to death, yet finds a new purpose, and two clever, resourceful, southern women. From a certain angle Highway 71 chronicles over one hundred years in America. Enjoy the book.
About the Author
Connor Croft was born and raised in the mountainous outback of northern California. He graduated high school as a lifetime member of the California Scholastic Federation, while early interests included drama, floor plans, interior design, and the tenor saxophone. In southern California, he later received a five year bachelor of architecture, with a concentration in urban design. Connor Croft subsequently moved to San Francisco, his home for several decades. In the City by the Bay, he became a self-taught artist, displaying his paintings and architectural arts in half a dozen shows. Additionally, volunteering in various community theater pursuits, he captivated local audiences a handful of times. Mister Croft's resume includes a wide variety of jobs, including office and interior design showroom clerk, color consultant, designer, drafter, educator, and visual merchandiser. He started writing and illustrating a picture book for children (utilizing an alternate pen name) several years ago, and decided to write a novel simultaneously. He eventually became more passionate about the novel, which he proceeded to finish first. Connor Croft has been called many things, while some say the title of Renaissance man suits him best.