A Southern Pressure: A Novel

a southern

pressure

a novel

caleb bedford

This is a work of FICTION. Names, character, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Caleb Bedford

All Rights Reserved.

First Edition, 2021

a southern pressure

There are all kinds of love in this world,

but never the same love twice.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald-

prologue

1

There is a certain pressure thrust upon a young man in that, when he leaves for college, he should return with a spouse, or at the very least with plans for such. I daresay this seems to be much more a Southern pressure than a general pressure. Being a man of Southern upbringing myself, I can hardly be certain, but feel free to write me if you have any knowledge on the subject.

This pressure, I feel I must clarify, is largely unspoken—at least it is not often (if ever) spoken directly. It tends to crop up at funerals and family gatherings when the young man (or woman) visits home, and can take the form of many different questions, the most common of which seems to be "Have you got anyone special in mind, dear?" It is a question that escapes the mouth of every aunt and grandmother. Uncles and grandfathers have their own, more blunt versions, and mothers have several versions prepared at all times.

The following account is an (often humorous) recollection of my attempts at doing such as is expected—to find a wife, for in my case it is what applies—of the Southern young man brought up in the aforementioned manner.

Before I begin in earnest, dear reader, I have both a promise and a request. The promise I make is that I, Theodore James Morgan, shall not intentionally omit anything of consequence, lest I be labeled a liar. The request I have is that you, reader, judge not too harshly my story, for I was just a meek young lad of eighteen years when the story begins, on my own for the first time in my life.

2

I suppose, in the interest of full clarity, I must first give a bit of backstory before plowing onward.

I was born in Savannah, Georgia, on a rainy Monday in September of ‘93, during a game of football. I don’t mean that I was born at the game, of course, but that the game was on the television in the room at the hospital. My father and the doctor were more preoccupied with the game than with the task of bringing me into the world, to hear my mother tell it. My father, of course, claims it to be an exaggeration of the facts, much like the tale of a fisherman’s prized catch growing larger with the years and numerous retellings, he says the truth seems to have fallen a bit from the actual events.

As the first born of the family, there are endless photos and video tapes of my young existence. It must have cost my parents dearly, this excessive documentation, as they had little money to spare at the time, but I admit it’s nice to have to look back on. We’ve been meaning to get it all digitized for years, both to make viewing easier, and for posterity’s sake. The cheap video cassette tapes won’t last forever. A few of them are already starting to go south.

For the first year of my life, we lived in a small apartment in Savannah, somewhere outside the city. I obviously carry no memory of this, but I’ve seen the tapes and it’s a bit of a shock looking at it from our present-day home of nearly four thousand square feet. From there, we moved to Fairhope, Alabama, a quaint town just across the bay from Mobile. A year later, my brother (Jonathan) came along, and two years later, was succeeded by my sister (Lizzy). Most of the aforementioned tape is from this Alabama era, including a particularly interesting one—at least so far as I’m concerned in bragging about—of my two-year-old self rollerblading around the driveway.

Soon after my sister joined us, our growing family packed and moved again, this time to Phoenix, Arizona. While out west, we saw the Grand Canyon, the Four Corners (which, alas, I hear was placed in the wrong spot and has subsequently been moved) and visited Disneyland. We camped and hiked out there. I even learned to ride a bike during this year or so out West. I remember none of it, but I am certain it was a blast.

At six years of age, I was once again dragged across the country back to Georgia, this time to the small town of Statesboro, for less than a year during which nothing of immediate importance happened, before again moving onward to a suburb of Charlotte, North Carolina. It was in North Carolina that my first true memories were made. I will not bore you with any of these, and I’d rather like to keep them to myself, anyway, but I thought I’d mention the fact.

Nearly four years later, we moved (for the last time of my adolescence) to a suburb of Jackson, Mississippi. It was just after this move that I discovered my father’s old guitar.

You might wonder, dear reader, and rightly so, how it took so long for me to discover this instrument. Well, my father had purchased it several years before I was born, but never had learned to play. I suppose he was busy with his preferred hobby, rebuilding old cars. The guitar was nothing special, mind you. The strings sat high and the neck was a thick chunk of wood, which worked together to make the thing a nightmare to learn to play. At times it almost felt as if the instrument was fighting against whoever was daring to play it. It really was no wonder my father had not stuck it out, but it didn’t stop me. Soon I had learned some chords and a few simple songs. I was in love for the first time.

Then, for my twelfth birthday, my parents bought me my first electric guitar (a cheap Stratocaster copy) and amplifier. Soon, with no knowledge whatsoever of musical theory and seemingly no knowledge even of how to tune the guitar, I began writing songs. They were quite terrible, to be honest, but I loved it. The idea of sitting down with pen, paper, and guitar, and creating something all my own was a new form of expression for me. I had written some stories before this, but writing stories never gave me such a feeling as writing these early songs.

All this time that I was learning to play guitar and write songs, I was heavily involved in sports and other endeavors in athletics. I spent all my free time after school with either a guitar in my hand or a ball. Through the entirety of high school, this was how my life looked. I had no time for school dances or even much interest in making friends. It was all sports and music.

Like any teenage male, of course, I developed an interest for girls. I wrote many songs for my crushes, only to be turned down or laughed at. Perhaps it was only because the songs were so terrible; perhaps I was just not appealing; perhaps it was a combination of the two. Regardless, I had not a single girlfriend in high school.

3

Truthfully, I was never overly fond of Mississippi. I had bigger city dreams and the country towns held no appeal for me. Attending high school at a small, private academy that on average graduated less than fifty students a year did nothing to change this lack of interest, so when it came time to choose which college to attend, I chose the University of Mobile. The city of Mobile is no bigger than Jackson, really, but the music program at the school was said to be phenomenal. I applied—it was the only school to which I applied—and soon was accepted.

My intention was to go study music, but alas, when it came time to choose my major and sign up for classes, I was persuaded by my rather practical father to choose something more useful. After a bit of lazy searching for anything more interesting that could also be considered even the slightest bit practical to a man like my father, I chose Finance, because it was what he had done, but I longed to study music instead. Perhaps I could add a minor at some point.

I neglected to mention, and perhaps the diligent reader might have picked it up, but I was entirely self-taught in music through books and the internet up to this point. It was a passion going on eight years, and I wanted to try to make a career out of it some way or another, but I felt I had little choice in the matter due to my education being financed by my parents. I didn’t stand up for what I wanted much at the time, but rather rolled with whatever path I deemed was of least resistance. It caused me a great deal of annoyance throughout the years.

Book One

part one

(2012)

1

I decided to move down to Mobile a few weeks early, in late July, with the noblest intentions of finding work. My grandparents lived close to the university, so I stayed with them while I began my search.

My first few days, I applied at several places, mostly restaurants, and soon received a call from a regional chicken finger joint by the name of Foosackly’s. I was set up for an interview the next day, to which I arrived early (a rarity for me) and sat down to wait. Ten minutes later, a relatively short man with brown hair came out holding a clipboard and slid into the booth across from me.

James? he asked.

Yes, I replied.

Forrest, he said, sticking out his hand, which I shook. He was older than I was, for sure, but couldn’t have been far past twenty-five, so he was still rather young. Renee will be out in a second, he added.

I’ve never been much good with small talk, but soon we were talking about what I was studying at school and I mentioned that I played guitar, to which he responded that he played drums. He was a relaxed individual, and someone I definitely felt I could work well with.

A few minutes later, as promised, Renee came out and joined us. Renee was about the same height as Forrest, had long brown hair, and carried a clipboard with her, too. She was also young and relaxed, which made me wonder if all of the managers were like that.

The two of them asked me a series of questions, mostly personality-type questions, none of which directly related to kitchen experience so far as I could tell. I had none, of course, and they could see it on my application. After ten minutes of this, I got a really weird question.

If you were a tree, what type would you be? Renee asked.

What?

A tree? I asked, stalling for time. How was I supposed to know what kind of a tree I would be? Knowing only two general types of trees, however, I decided to just say whatever came to mind. I suppose I would be a pine, as I’m tall and thin, and more likely to break than fall over.

It was the first thing that came to mind, and apparently nothing like what they were expecting, because for the next ten to fifteen seconds, the three of us stared at each other blankly. I had enough time to think that maybe saying the first thing that came to mind wasn’t the ideal gameplan before, finally, Forrest broke the silence.

What’s your availability like? he asked.

Monday and Tuesday nights, and Thursday and Friday nights, I replied. And all day Saturday.

No Sunday?

Church on Sunday.

Okay.

I think that’s all, Renee added. We’ll be in touch if we need to schedule you for a second round.

I stood up and shook both of their hands. Walking out, I felt sure I had not got the job, and could not get the tree question out of my head for the remainder of the day.

2

Move-in day was the second week in August. It was a Friday, and my parents drove down with the remainder of my things. Whatever had not fit in my car when I had come down a few weeks before, they brought with them on a trailer pulled behind my father’s truck.

This was a big day for me, as it was to be the first time I would meet my roommate for the semester. I did not know anyone who went to the school, so I had been randomly assigned with another person in a similar situation. I felt I could get along with just about anybody, so I wasn’t too worried. As long as the guy was neither deliberately obtuse or a serial murderer, I figured we would get along just fine.

He was there when I arrived. Unknowingly, I had been assigned a RA for a roommate. I was not thrilled, but thought that he might at least be one of the more relaxed ones, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

You must be James, he said, extending his hand, which I took. Nick.

He was about the same height as me and roughly fifty pounds heavier. As skinny as I was, that still put him twenty to thirty pounds overweight. Certainly not what anyone would call fat, but compared to me a striking difference in shape.

Nice to meet you, I replied politely, hoping it was true.

Do you need any help moving in? he asked.

I could already tell he was going to annoy me, though I couldn’t place my finger on the exact reason. He was too nice, but there was something else.

If you want, I shrugged.

Cool. The way he pronounced it was weird, almost like it was spelled with a Q rather than the C with which it should have been.

Where are you from? I asked as we walked out to help my parents with the larger items.

Sylacauga.

Where the hell is that? I asked. He flinched at hell, another strike of which I took note.

North Alabama, he replied.

Sounds dreadful. I ignored his offended glare. By then we were outside and near the trailer. Bookshelves first, I said.

We each grabbed one—I had limited myself to bringing only two—and lugged them into the dorm, grateful I had a room on the first floor. Next came the guitars (I had three at this point) and amplifier.

You play guitar? he asked stupidly.

Nah, I replied. I just carry them around to look cool. This earned another glare, which I basked in proudly. I was getting under his skin. It probably wasn’t the best course of action, but it felt good.

I play, too, he said.

Good for you.

It was clear that it was going to be a long semester. The fault was, of course, mine, but I couldn’t look at his face without being annoyed. I’m certain that says something about me, though what, exactly, I’m not certain.

The next few hours were spent unpacking and rearranging, after which I went to dinner at Foosackly’s with my family. I had not gotten the job, but the chicken fingers were fantastic, so I couldn’t bring myself to boycott.

After dinner, my family went to see my grandparents and I went back to the dorm. Nick was on duty, thankfully, which meant I had the room to myself for a bit. I used the time to play guitar and began writing a song, but got stuck after writing only a verse and a chorus.

3

At nine o’clock that first Friday night, welcome week officially began with a concert by some guy I’d never heard of. From talk around campus, however, he seemed to be a big deal in the private Christian college community.

I meandered over as it was beginning. I had nothing better to do, really, and thought I might manage to meet some people. I had resolved to make a noble attempt at such, at least. I was a bit of a loner, and always had been, but this was an opportunity to get out and reinvent myself. I could get my heart broken a time or two, maybe start a band. The possibilities were nearly endless!

Thus began my collegiate career. I stepped through the doors into the cafeteria, which was the only way to get into the concert hall, and was immediately greeted by the sound of muffled music blasting through the wall and around the empty room, reverberating off of all surfaces.

It was not going to be a night to meet friends, as there was no way I could possibly have a conversation. Furthermore, when I reached the door to the concert hall itself, I found the room to be completely filled. Every seat was taken, though not a single person was sitting, and there were a great deal of people standing at the back as well. I settled in amongst these other unfortunate souls that had arrived too late for a seat, but soon decided to leave. I am one of the few oddballs that prefer to sit at a show, and I had little to no interest in the prospect of standing for the next hour only to listen to some guy sing who, although not bad, I had not heard of before the night began.

I was back at my dorm before nine thirty and, upon entering the building, found a couple of guys—perhaps the only two not attending the concert—playing ping-pong in the rec room. My competitive nature perked up and I decided to join.

I’ll play next, if that’s okay, I said during a break in the action.

Sure, they said in unison.

After the game ended, I introduced myself. They did the same. Darryl was a large, quiet man with long dreadlocks. Luke was shorter than I was, roughly of average height. He had shoulder-length hair and wore a dirty hat backwards.

As we played, we got to talking and I learned that Darryl was a music major who mainly played bass and Luke was a Christian studies major who liked to work on cars. He had one parked behind the dorm that he was trying to get running again. He had had it towed here and could go nowhere until it was repaired. I also learned that he was semi-secretly engaged to a young woman called Satyn (pronounced like satin).

We played for an hour or so, after which Luke left to meet his bride-to-be who had gone to the concert. Darryl left as well, leaving me alone, at which point I went to my room. Nick was still on duty at the desk, so I had it to myself again.

I spent the hour attempting to make progress on my song I had been working on, but got nowhere. I was asleep before Nick got back.

4

Saturday’s main event was a dance with an eighties theme, which I planned on avoiding at all costs. I abhorred dancing (not in principle, but only doing it myself) and anything resembling costume attire. I slept late and went to the cafeteria for lunch around noon. After grabbing my food, I looked for a table, selecting one with only three people. I wanted to make friends, and figured I’d start small.

Mind if I sit here? I asked.

Not at all, replied a short, blonde-haired girl with a pleasant smile.

I’m James, I said, sitting.

Anna, she replied.

Jaime. She was taller than Anna and had dark hair and a more muted smile. She was very pretty.

Christopher, said a guy with dark hair and glasses that made him look, at least in my opinion, sort of like Harry Potter.

Nice to meet you, I said. Are you all Freshmen, or…?

They are, Anna said. I’m a Junior.

She’s our group leader for Ram Rush, Jaime explained.

Ahh, I said. So what are you all studying?

Business, said Anna. Admin.

Music, said Jaime. Specifically worship leadership.

Electrical engineering, said Christopher.

I’m finance, I said. But I play guitar and write music, too. Thinking about a minor.

Did you go to the concert? Anna asked.

"I popped in, but I got there late and didn’t stay long. It