Fortunate Son

An Excerpt from The Book Classic Rock Fiction,
Short Stories Inspired by the Greatest Music Ever Recorded

CURATED BY INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED ROCK JOURNALIST JIM ESPOSITO

Home

Stories

Reviews

Video

Memoirs

Cool Stuff

Fiction

Staff Box

Fortunate Son

An Excerpt
from The Book

Classic Rock Fiction:

Short Stories Inspired
by the Greatest Music Ever Recorded

by The Midnight DJ

Available Now at Amazon.com

In my day we would’ve called this (dare we say it) – Avant-Garde. We came across this book Classic Rock Fiction: Short Stories Inspired by the Greatest Music Ever Recorded by The Midnight DJ which is one of the most original and innovative concepts we’ve ever encountered. This book contains dozens of short fiction pieces inspired by the Author imagining back stories and futures of characters in famous Classic Rock Songs.

It is not often we find another writer whose style we admire to this extent, and The Author is quite adept at turning a phrase.

“Music felt dimensional, as if it could be stepped into.”

A man after my own heart. And undoubtedly a sentiment anybody visiting our site can relate to.

The author has graciously allowed us to reprint one of his stories on Classic Rock Forever (dot com). Enjoy.

Click on the link to Amazon. Score yourself a copy.

The toast began just after sunset, when the cicadas started up along the fairway and the last of the golfers wandered in, flushed and satisfied.

The dining room at the Evergreen Country Club smelled like steak, cigar smoke, and money that had never worried about tomorrow. Jackets were required. Ties were optional. The bar had already been busy for an hour, the television above it finally switched off after another report from Vietnam.

Mr. Whitcombe rose from his chair and tapped his glass with a spoon.

“Gentlemen,” he said, smiling easily. “If I could have your attention.”

Conversation faded into a respectful hush. Mr. Whitcombe was tall and confident in a way that came from never having been truly tested. He owned three car dealerships and had recently announced his intention to run for city council. People listened when he spoke.

He lifted his glass.

“To our boys overseas,” he said. “To the brave young men standing up for freedom. To sacrifice. To duty.”

Around the table, glasses rose. Ice clinked. Someone murmured approval.

“Communism doesn’t sleep,” Mr. Whitcombe continued. “And neither can we. It’s up to us to support the cause any way we can.”

Applause followed. It was polite and approving, and it ended exactly when it was supposed to. Mr. Whitcombe sat down, pleased.

Across the table, Mr. Bennett nodded and took a sip of bourbon. His son was at Yale, and everyone knew it. He was pre-law, with solid grades and a future. The deferment paperwork had been handled quietly the year before.

“Well said,” Mr. Bennett remarked.

Beside him, Mr. Delaney chuckled. “Can’t let them think we’re soft,” he said as he cut into his steak.

Mr. Delaney’s son had flat feet, or nerves, or something else a friendly doctor had signed off on. Mr. Delaney never remembered the details.

Near the kitchen doors, Tommy Reilly stood with a tray of empty glasses balanced on one hand.

Tommy was 16 years old. He wore the club’s green vest and a stiff smile he practiced in the mirror before every shift. His father had worked here before him. Now his father worked nights at the mill, when there was work.

Tommy waited for a pause before stepping forward to clear the table.

As he leaned in, he heard Mr. Whitcombe speaking again.

“We’re lucky,” Mr. Whitcombe was saying. “Lucky to live in a country that gives us choices.”

“Yes,” Mr. Bennett agreed. “Opportunity.”

Tommy gathered glasses, moving carefully around men who expected not to notice him. He had learned that skill early.

At the next table, another toast rose.

“To victory,” someone called.

“To coming home safe,” another added.

Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re Reilly’s boy, right?” Mr. Whitcombe asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your brother – has he enlisted yet?”

Tommy swallowed. “He got his notice last week.”

There was a pause that was brief but unmistakable.

“Well,” Mr. Whitcombe said, nodding solemnly. “That’s something to be proud of.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Whitcombe turned back to his plate, and the conversation flowed on.

Tommy stepped away, his tray trembling just enough that he had to steady it.

His brother Danny was 19 years old. He worked part time at a gas station and played baseball on Sundays. He hadn’t said much since the letter arrived.

The room filled again with talk about summer homes, tax rates, and how the war would probably be over soon once the right pressure was applied.

Someone joked about “teaching them a lesson.”

At the bar, Mr. Bennett leaned toward Mr. Delaney. “The doctor says my boy’s heart murmur could act up under stress. There’s no sense risking it.”

“Of course not,” Mr. Delaney said. “You do what you can.”

Tommy moved from table to table, invisible and necessary. He refilled glasses. He cleared plates. He listened.

The climax arrived without ceremony.

A man near the bar stood abruptly.

“Just got word,” he said.

The room quieted.

“Johnson’s boy,” the man said. “Killed last week. Outside Da Nang.”

A few heads bowed. Someone muttered that it was a damn shame.

Mr. Whitcombe cleared his throat. “Tragic,” he said. “It is truly tragic.”

For a moment, the room held still. The words lingered, waiting for something to follow them.

Nothing followed.

A chair scraped. Wine was poured. Conversation restarted, softer at first and then stronger.

“To peace,” someone offered.

Glasses rose again.

Tommy watched from the edge of the room. He thought of Danny packing a duffel bag in their shared bedroom. He thought of the way their mother cried quietly at the sink.

He finished his shift an hour later. He changed out of his vest and walked home alone under a dark, heavy sky.

The next morning, Danny would be at the bus station. The men at Evergreen Country Club would be eating breakfast.

The understanding settled in slowly, solid and final. Some people talked about sacrifice because it cost them nothing. Some people raised glasses because they would never be asked to raise a hand.

And the war, for all its speeches and slogans, seemed to find the same kinds of boys.

The fortunate ones were already seated at the table.

Buy Your Copy of