Point of view. Writers struggle with it and try not to put the reader’s mind on a swivel. But it can also be a part of the story. Not everyone is who they seem to be.
From my recently released novel, SIDE SLIP:
The pot smoke was great for getting stoned but didn’t seem to discourage the mosquitoes at all. “Shit!” Dickie Worthington slapped the buzzing pest against his right cheek and pitched the roach out of the driver’s window before it burned the ends of the fingers on his left hand.
“Hey dickhead, you forget me, eh?” the passenger, Ray Combs, bitched. Looking back out of the windshield of the parked Bronco, Ray said, “Almost dark. We can go in a little bit, eh?”
Dickie rubbed his scruffy red stubble and then slid his hand up under his dirty green Eagles hat to dig at a sore on the top of his head. The pot made the sore itch and tingle, “Naw, we wait some more. Gotta be able to see if any lights are on.”
Ray thought about that and though his mind was swirling from dope and years of stuffing any sort of illegal or legal drug into his body, was able to process the logic and replied, “Uhh.” Profound.
“You got a date or somethin’?” Dickie snickered. Ray was what you might call mud floor ugly. Dickie was no prize but still managed to get a girl to screw, if he got her drunk enough. Ray on the other hand had long ago decided girls held no secret sway over him that dope of any kind didn’t do better. He didn’t have to bathe or brush his teeth too often and all the money he got from Dickie for the stuff they stole from the empty hunting cabins went to getting high instead of fancy food or anything else a girl might want from him. Besides, his cock was shriveled and didn’t work right most of the time anyway. Girls just made it worse for him. Yeah, he’d take a bag of weed or some Vicodin any day.
“Car,” Dickie said and slid lower in the seat as a small Dodge passed on the gravel road heading down the mountain. They were parked in a grass and dirt drive fifty feet off the country road. There were only a few houses and trailers farther up the mountain and several hunting camps tucked in next to the state game lands that covered the top and both sides of Blue Mountain just east of Hamburg.
They’d been here before and got a nice rifle out of one of the cabins. They figured small game hunting season was not for four months yet and no one would be around most of the cabins all summer. The Dodge didn’t slow down and the brake lights never came on so they relaxed again.
“We’ll go on up about ten. Be good’n dark about then. And don’t ever call me dickhead again,” Dickie said as he pulled rolling papers out of his shirt pocket and rolled another joint in the last of the daylight.