Keenan Dupree, known professionally as K. Dupree, is an author born in the Bronx, New York in 1992. Soon after, his family moved to Prince George's County, Maryland where he was raised. He currently lives with his mother and father, Sharon and Vincent Hayes, in Greenville, North Carolina. He began as a tyro writer in the third grade, where he received the initial push to write from his teacher at the time Mr. Victor Turner. Dupree enjoys reading certain kinds of informative literature, playing videogames, watching movies, and writing when everyone else is asleep. So far he's written one book--his first book--Boy from the Clouds, and he looks forward to his many future published works.
It’s mid-morning on a cool summer day in the 1970s. The hotel room had a private backyard that was fenced off but the sky was visible above six foot. As for the room itself, it was neat. Two queen-size beds, both made. A single chair sat at the foot of the one furthest from the sliding glass door that led to the mock-patio.
Out on the patio, a man in a suit jacket and tie with slicked-back hair spoke with a woman in a dark fur jacket and bellbottoms. They sit to a table with nothing on it. The woman holds a drink in her hand as she and the man lean into the conversation.
The man sat there looking down, glancing at the woman occasionally. He was playing with his tie and fingers, fidgeting. He gulped. “So…”
Lifting her eyebrows and gesturing to him with her drink, the woman said, “So…”
Looking her in the eye, the man said, “Thanks again, Lorraine, for seein’ me on such short notice.”
“Of course, Michael. What’re friends for?”
“Yeah.” He wiped his sweaty brow with the tip of his tie.
“Well…” she took a sip of her drink, “what’s the problem?”
“I… I got into some debt with the wrong people, and…” He gulped, putting his finger in between his neck and the front of the collar and pulling outward as much as he could with.
“And you need the money or they’ll rearrange your face?”
“Yeah.” He nodded.
“Twelve thousand dollars.”
“Twelve thousand dollars!” She jolted forward, spilling some of her drink onto his tie.
He loosened his tie and snatched it off, tossing it on the table.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Michael!”
“No! It’s fine! It’s fine. It’s just that… this is a hell of a mess I’ve gotten myself into.” He grabbed his face at the temples and slid his hand down and off of, into his lap.
“It sure is.” She took another sip, having sat back in her chair again.
“So… will you help me?”
She sat there in silence, looking at him. After a time, she then said, “How do I know you won’t do it again? Have you ever done anything like this before?”
“No! I’ve never done anything like this in my life! I blew everything in Vegas and I needed a loan to keep my house and I couldn’t get the money to repay the loan in time, and now I’m up Crap Creek without a TP paddle!”
“I talk weird when I’m nervous.” He wiped his hand across his forehead, ridding it of more sweat.
She took one last, long look at him. “You’re a mess.” She gulped the rest of her drink down. “Fine. I’ll give you the money—”
He grabbed her by the hand. “Thank you, Lorraine! Thank you! Thank you!”
“But…” her voice dropped, “you get in trouble again, you’re on your own. You hear me?”
“Yes, Lorraine. I understand. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome, Michael.” She then got up from the table and went into the hotel.