Fiction

One-Sided Story

“See you later, Mom,” I say as I run out the front door rushing to catch the bus, bus 19C. As usual I’m late, but luckily I only have two blocks to go. There’s my neighbor, Mr. Thomas. I’ve never noticed him riding the bus before. I saw his house for sale, maybe he’s selling his car, too. The bus will take me to work, he too, I suppose. He lives four houses down from me, the brick house with the green shutters. He had a great looking wife and a little girl, Maddie. She played with my little sis, Mindy. Pretty cool kid. He and his wife were always out doing something together: gardening in the front yard, playing in the sprinklers with Maddie, or jogging past my house as I was on my way to football practice. I’d watch them race, laughing, seeing who could beat the other home.

He looks up as I approach the bench and sees me staring right at him. I nod and apologetically smile. He just nods, no expression. I decide not to sit next to him. He seems like he’d rather be alone. I lean against the bus stop sign. I should’ve worn a jacket. This flannel shirt with the elbows worn through just isn’t cuttin’ it this morning. I see he has hot coffee, steam rising. He wraps his hands around the Styrofoam cup, to warm them. A coat and a cup of Java would certainly be nice.

An elderly woman, hair pinned to a red see-through scarf, walks across the street. She doesn’t need to look for traffic. This end of town has pretty much dried up. Businesses have moved outside the city. Peterson’s Groceries is about the only thing still living in these skeleton buildings. Good ol’ Jack Peterson is still trying to make a living on the corner of Edison and 8th Street. Of course everything they sell in there is purely profit, I swear. He still has inventory from the fifties. She sits on the bench next to my neighbor. She turns to him and says hello, yellowed teeth shows. He doesn’t seem to notice she is there. He closes his eyes, putting one of his hands in the pocket of his tan corduroy pants. You can tell he’ rather talk.

“Oh, it’s a bit brisk, today, isn’t it?” she says in a shaky voice looking straight ahead. “I’d like to nip at Jack Frost’s toes like he did to mine this morning. My poor aching arthritic feet. It was just about all I could take. My doctor gives me some anti-infamma..inflamm…something to make the swelling go down, but then they get so darn cold!” She reaches into her pink polka-dot, plastic bag pulling out an afghan to cover her legs and pulls out her newspaper. “Isn’t that the saddest story? I guess the pilot was drunk. At least he’s being charged with voluntary…ah let’s see, what do they call it. Oh yes, here. ‘Voluntary manslaughter’ and his license will be revoked. I don’t know what’s gotten into people lately. It’s the parents’ fault, I think. Don’t you?” Again, asking her question, yet looking ahead, eyes glossy and seemingly talking to herself. Neither of us answer. “Harold and I tried to teach Bobby to be a good person. ‘Do what’s right you’ll have a good life,’ we said.” She gives me a look specialized by mothers and grandmothers everywhere.

He sips his hot coffee, glancing at her paper. I look over the lady’s shoulder to read—“JUSTICE TO BE SERVED—Pilot intoxicated on Flight 1539.”

“Damn,” he says and shakes his head. He spilt his coffee on his pants and tries wiping the already saturated pant leg. “Sorry,” he says to her for no reason. His pants were wet, not hers.

“Oh, I remember the day it crashed. It was Harold’s birthday. Well it would’ve been. He passed away two years ago, bless his soul. I sure miss him,” she sighs and rubs her gold band. “Do you remember the day the plan crashed?” turning to look at me directly.

“Yeah, I came home after footb—“ I try to say; she interrupts.

“It was that awful windy day. I remember looking out my picture window to the north watching the snow blowing. ‘Not today, Tabby; you’ll freeze your little paws right off,’ I remember telling my tabby. Yep, it was a cold one. I’ve never liked the cold. I grew up in Louisiana—Shreveport. After Harold got out of the Army, we moved north. I dreaded living here. Harold used to tease me. You see, I don’t wear boots, snow boots, ya’know, so every year come first snow fall…boom! I always fall. He said it was a winter tradition.” Yellow teeth showed and her thin skin wrinkled around her eyes. She just motors on.

I think she just wants to hear herself talk. Change the subject, lady. Where is the bus? That would help. I look over at him and he actually seems to be enjoying this lady’s stories. He barely smiles and nods at her. I remember seeing him and Maddie a couple of years back out in the snow. Maddie was pretty little. She was all bundled up sledding down the little hill her dad had built for her. Kids look so funny in their winter clothes. Their snowsuits all bunched up and puffy make them look like miniature Michelin tire men. I laugh aloud. He looks back at me, but she keeps talking.

“I always wanted Harold to learn to fly. Oh, what fun, flying off here and there. But his feet were firmly planted, no discussion on that issue. He was a stubborn one, my Harold. I’m just glad he never learned. I might never have seen my little grandbaby, or our Bobby’s graduation from college. That poor man, to lose them both, too.”

Thank God, the bus is here. Maybe now he can get away from her. He sits in the sixth row, the seat next to the window. I sit next to him, so he wouldn’t have to sit by her. We bounce along through morning traffic. I try to think about my day ahead, but I can’t get that lady’s conversation out of my head; ‘to lose them both, too.’ Man, that had to be rough.

“Off to work?” he casually asks me.

Surprised, I answer, “Yeah, I’ve got a ten-hour shift, today.”

“I remember those days,” he says. “Trying to make some dough, so you can move out of the parents’ house. You live on the same block I do, don’t you?” he asks.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“You have a little sister that plays with, ah—used to play with Maddie,” he says stumbling over his words.

I nod and fiddle with the frayed edges of my flannel. I look out the window, watching the skyline blur together as trees and buildings flash by.

“Maddie loved bus rides. She just loved ‘em. She’d sit on the edge of her seat or on my lap trying to capture every sight. She didn’t miss a thing, boy,” he laughs. “She’d even notice when I would space off and start twisting a piece of hair without knowing it. She’d say, ‘Daddy, quit twist’n your hairs. Mommy says you’d be bald if you keep twist’n.’” We both laugh and then he looks outside the window.

I look at the back of his head and notice he is balding. I reach in the pocket of my flannel, searching for gum or candy; I always have stuff stashed somewhere. Ah, a couple of peppermints from Casa del Rey’s. “You want one?” I ask.

“That’d be great. That coffee is burning a hole right through me. My wife always carried some in her purse. I have a weak stomach, and peppermint seems to settle it. She knew how to take care of me,” he says.

I notice he starts to play with his wedding band, turning it around and around. I don’t feel too comfortable, either. I don’t know what to say to him. I reach down to retie my tennis shoe, halfway in the aisle; it’s something to do.

“My Bobby and his little Mary fly in today,” the lady turns around and says looking at. “Oh, I can hardly wait, I’m so excited. It’s Mary’s first trip on a plane. I hope it’s going ok. After the crash, everyone’s a little jittery, but they’re flying in on a commercial flight.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” he loudly answers even though this time she was just talking to me.

The bus stops and I try to get out quickly. I get the feeling this has been too long of day for him, already. Of course, everyone’s taking their own sweet time. I let him go in front of me. The lady turns to him as she fixes her scarf, “Are you flying somewhere today?” she asks.

“No, I’ll…never fly again,” he says. He tries to push past her.

She asks, “Why? Why don’t you like to fly? Since that accident, and since that pilot was----“

He snapped. “I had two drinks, lady! Only two, do you hear me?” He shot her an angry, hurt look and pushed past her down the bus stairs. The lady turns to me, shocked and confused. We shuffle out the bus as well. I thought I should explain, but I’m irritated and sick of her prodding and talking. And to be honest, I don’t know what truly happened. I look up watching him enter the airport service entrance for employees only. She’s still looking at me. I shrug my shoulders not knowing what else to do, then I too, walk away.


Flashes of Life

If you take 7th Street all the way down, going north, turn on Hennepin, past the dimly lit warehouse district, you’ll see the used car lot where Eddie and TJ crouched between a rusty 4x4 pick-up and a two-door, light blue Mazda, calculating their next move. There was a street light on the corner that had been put to rest; they shot it with a 9mm. Carlo’s Motors was dark, except for the flickering neon sign which created a tint of red against the ominous, black clouds in the cold and moody night sky. The moon was trying its best to break through the bullying billows, but they were stubborn, hiding the moon, cheating the city of light.
The spotlight was the only source of direct light. It swung like a pendulum flashing streams of light across its path. It was as if the spotlight had a mind of its own, moving in no ordered manner, just rotating, supposedly trying to curb crime. Eddie looked up at the stream of light radiating from the light’s tower. It hit the four-story building next to the car lot.

“Hurry up! What’s taking you so long” whispered Eddie as he poked TJ with the pistol. “We ain’t got long,” he said as he fidgeted with the shells in his pocket.

“Knock it off. You wanna get smart wi’me? I could kill ya right here and score all the cash,” TJ said as he shot a deadly look at Eddie. TJ was a big guy: 6’4 weighing 290. He had a lazy eye which made Eddie nervous and he never quite knew which eye to look at. But he trusted TJ. They’d been “business partners” for some time, almost five years, minus the time TJ did for stealing that white Lincoln. They knew it was risky, but all they thought of was the cash Al would pay to get his hands on that truck.

“Hey, aren’t we supposed to meet Al down by the Nicollet bridge in less than an hour?” Eddie asked. “I don’ wanna know what he’d do if we showed up late.”

“We won’ be late,” TJ said. “Have I ever let you down, man? You’re makin’ me nervous. Now, hand me that jimmy.” TJ wedged the slimjim down the driver’s window until he heard that familiar ‘clunk.’ The door latch unlocked. Like a cat approaching his kill, TJ slowly opened the door letting Eddie slide in.

Eddie was the apprentice tonight learning how to hot wire the car. He yanked the wires from under the steering column and with a shaky hand touched them together. The Mazda coughed, choked.

“Take it off, dumb ass,” TJ snapped. “Ya jus’ sposed to touch it, then le’ it go—like I tol’ja.” Eddie tried again and it started right up. Eddie slid over as TJ snuck in the door. The strobe light from the Tower struck the front of the car. TJ gunned it and tore out of Carlo’s Motors.
--------------------
It was his first night on patrol. He walked towards the water’s edge grasping his flashlight like his loaded 357 Magnum, hoping the illuminated fog and the shedding trees were the only things he’d see. A jogger had called it in. Said he heard the gunshot and saw two men down the embankment. The rookie was sent to check it out. “Please, God, let this be a false alarm,” he said aloud. His palms were sticky as he fidgeted with the new stiff leather of his holster. It wasn’t very windy that night, yet the sound of the waves rolling up the shore, one right after another and the “ssshwiiishsshsh” sound of the hardened leaves together produced a soft drum roll for what he hoped would not happen. The sky was dark with huge, black clouds. Impending danger was the message they seemed to convey. He aimed his flashlight along the rocks leading to the water. His heart pounded, feeling like his sternum would break from the intense throbbing. He needed to get a grip, he told himself. He wouldn’t let his old man down; he’d been a cop for 38 years. He’d make Dad proud, yet.
-------------------
Juanita sat at the kitchen table with her spaghetti-splashed apron still on. She rubbed the back of her neck with her sticky garlic-stained hands; her neck ached from standing on her feet all day. She walked over to the sink for the third time since she got home, partly trying to eliminate the strong onion odor that permeated her pores, but partly trying to calm her nerves. It was almost midnight and she hadn’t received the knock every mother or grandmother on the block prayed would never happen. But, there was still a lot of hours of darkness left.

She thought she’d relax, light a candle and write her sister. Her sister, Marie, had moved two hours away to go to night school. She was a teller during the day and Juanita didn’t miss her, really. When Marie lived with Juanita, she’d come in all hours of the night bringing in the latest drunk to fill that lustful void she claimed she had. Juanita wasn’t sure what she meant; Marie seemed to “be occupied” quite often.

Juanita said she’d watch over Marie’s son for her while she was gone. He was old enough to be on his own, but that’s what Juanita worried about. He’d been in trouble before and she didn’t want that responsibility. She didn’t always agree with Marie or the things she did, but she still loved her very much. And, when Juanita was in a bind a few years ago, Marie had helped her out. She found her a job at The Flat Iron where Juanita’s worked ever since. Juanita knew it was her turn to do Maria a favor. She just hoped there was no trouble.

Juanita lit the candle on the table getting out her stationery. The light from the candle sent uneven rays of yellowness on her paper. Candlelight always soothed her. It seemed to wrap warmth around her.
------------------
Maleeka hugged her teddy taking in a deep breath of that familiar playmate’s scent. She couldn’t sleep. She was tired, rubbing her eyelids with closed fists, but her daddy wasn’t home to tuck her in. It was quiet and dark in her room, except for the rectangles of light that traveled across her wall when a car drove by. The light on the wall didn’t scare her. It actually took her mind off those pesky monsters that slept in her closet at night.

“Daddy, Daddy, I’m scared,” she called. It wouldn’t hurt to fib a little. She just wanted her daddy to play with her braids and tuck the covers underneath her chin. She loved their nightly ritual.

“Honey, now you need to get some sleep. Daddy will be here when you wake. Close your eyes, now. Sweet dreams, Maleek’. Mommy loves you—so does your daddy.”
-------------------
The policeman drove up to 1213 Bentwood, pulling up to the curb. He sat in his car for a few minutes, not wanting to get out. He wondered how his dad did it. The knock on the door startled Juanita. She bumped the table and the candle fell splashing hot wax on the letter. She opened the door, tentatively when she saw the policeman through the diamond window.

“Is Eddie Lochero your son?” the policeman leaning in the doorway asked. “Ma’am is Mr. Lochero your son?”

“No, he’s…he’s…my nephew,” she said in short breaths. How would she tell Marie, her mind raced.

“I’m sorry, he’s dead.” The policeman took off his hat.

“!Ah! !Dios mios! Dios mios! !Por favor, que no…que no!” Juanita stepped back from the doorway and slip her back along the wall clasping her cross that hung around her neck.

“It was some sort of fight. We found a stolen truck a mile down from where we found the body. He was under the Nicollet bridge. Gun shot wound to his upper abdomen. I’m very sorry Ma’am, very sorry.” He now knew why after so many years of doing this, how it hardened his dad.
--------------------
“Daddy’s home, sweetheart,” he softly caressed her cheek. She stretched, pushing his hand away and turned over on her stomach. He patted her back. He sat down on the side of the bed and laid his head in his hands. He wished to God he could forget the frightful night. Forget about Eddie and Al. They had just pushed him too far. Eddie had put a knife to his neck and said he’d tell Josie where he getting all the money for her gifts, groceries, and rent if he didn’t give him a bigger cut of the money they were getting from Al. He lifted his head and could see through the lighted crack in the door his wife pacing the kitchen, wanting answers, wanting these late nights to end. They would, he promised. He just wanted them to have the “good life”—buy Josie pretty jewelry and shiny patent leather shoes for Maleeka. He looked at the light the crack in the door had cast on the curtain. It reminded him of the spotlight from the 7th Street Tower, now, invading his home, stopped, holding its ray still, to point its crooked finger at him.


Bargain Bin

She picked up the dirty pink, ceramic elephant looking at a piece of masking tape wrapped around its trunk marked two dollars and fifty cents. She set it down and fingered the fuzzy, lime green ric rac that lined the edges of the lamp shade. It was in pretty good shape so the tape on its cream base showed five bucks. Why did all this junk smell the same, she wondered. Dust must permeate into the fibers of all old things, she reasoned. She wasn’t quite sure why she was there. She certainly wasn’t there to buy anything.
It was a cold November day, no snow, but lots of wind. The clouds just seemed to roll right over the sun; they made sure the sun wasn’t permitted to warm the brisk air. She usually took Highway 95 home from the beauty salon in Uptown, but for no apparent reason that day, she took a two-lane country road. That’s where she saw the sign, Fox Den Antiques, “Where one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” The store was in a large metal garage, the type where tractors are usually stored. The large garage door was down, but the wind tried its best to break in, rapping at the tin. She shivered hearing the wind whir through the cracks in the door. She noticed a basket of postcards. “Aloha from the shores of Honolulu…” she read. She looked around to see if anyone would notice her reading the back of the card. What’s the point? She knew what it said. “How are you? Things are great—couldn’t be better, and having so much fun.” That’s what they all said. She laid the postcard back in the basket, thumbing through the others, not seeing the beauty along the coasts, but feeling the loneliness inside.
She knew how those trips really were. “Darling, why don’t you take my credit card and go shopping, no limits.” I’d buy my baby the world, right?” He’d bat her on the butt and wink at his associate. “Go on. Oh, and hon, my meeting will run a little late tonight, so treat yourself to a feast. The hotel has great room service, I hear.” Again, he’d share a knowing look at his partner to match their devious smiles. It didn’t take her long to figure out where she fit into his world, or rather where she did not.
Above a shelf, she noticed the depression glassware: goblets, pitchers, plates. Some were peach, some pale pink, others green, just like the set her grandmother had given her mom. She traced the rim of the green pitcher with no intent, just feeling, trying to remember what happened to it all after Mom died.
“Oh!” She looked down and a little boy with messy, matted hair chewing loudly on a bright pink piece of bubble gum had rammed right into her. He had lost his balance, fell, and was lying across her shoes.
“I’m so sorry,” his mother said, not looking up at her. “Tommy, I told you to be careful,” she scolded, pulling him back up and pushing him down the aisle.
She wondered if her boys thought of her. They came home for Christmas and two weeks in the summer, but even then, she saw them briefly. It had been the “set-up” since they were five. By birth, they were her boys, but there were no ties, no emotional bond just the economic strings that their dad provided to keep them there, giving them the “best education.” She wished she would’ve cut those strings years ago.
She had been walking down the aisle daydreaming, trying to forget her world of expensive trinkets that she still owed money on, touching the dusty treasures at the Fox Den. At the end of the row was a coat rack filled with various specimens from many decades. There was a navy blue, naval peacoat with its stripes still on the shoulders and a thin, mid-thigh leather coat, with a wrap-a-round belt. She didn’t see a price on either. The little boy, Tommy, poked his head between the coats and stuck out his tongue. He was really quite cute and he thought he was funny, but she couldn’t bring herself to smile. It hurt too much to see children, reminding her of her own that she never got the chance to know.
She threw a fake fur shawl around her shoulders wishing she had purchased this one instead of the $8000 mink coat she left in her Lexus. What mistakes she had made. At first Roger took care of her bills, but after the newness of the affair wore off, he said she’d have to take care of her bills. He’d pay for her penthouse, so they’d have a “posh” place to screw, plus a monthly stipend, but all her credit card debt were up to her to pay.
She looked at Tommy’s oversized jean jacket as he played with the fringes on a Mexican poncho, then disappeared between the coats. She sighed, wishing she too, could disappear.
“Saturday Night Fever. God, Andy Gibb was hot,” she said aloud as she lifted the record album from the box of records on the floor. Slowly she ran her fingers across its surface, leaving two clean tracks in the dust. To be young again, she thought. She would have done things differently, no doubt about it. Oh, she had the life, she would never deny that, but the loneliness. She felt so degraded. After knowing what she knew now, she’d give up her diamonds, the Lexus, and all her designer clothes to be back in her mobile home with her little boys. She used to call it the ‘tin crap on wheels,’ but now, it was the only home she wanted to go home to.
She walked over to the table with all the jewelry in plastic trays and the tagboard sign labeled, “Bargain bin.” Light blue, plastic bead necklaces, chunky, red bracelets, rhinestone clip earrings with the faded gray metal surrounding the stones were thrown together in the tray. The plated silver which had worn off the rhinestone earrings leaving just the ugly tarnished metal, reminded her of how she felt: stripped of all beauty, overused and no luster left at all. She looked down at her ten caret total diamond weight bracelet on her left wrist and her emerald tennis bracelet on her right. What did they prove? That she was damn good in bed and could pick a rich bastard! A rich bastard, that’s all he was. He didn’t lover her, never did. Oh, but he told her he did; she stirred things in him Ellen never aroused. “You’ll be my special lady,” he’d say. She wasn’t anybody’s “special,” she knew. If she left, he’d find somebody new to screw and he’d support her, too. She picked up a tag from one of the trays that had fallen off one of the plastic necklaces. One dollar it read. She wrapped the tag around both her bracelets she slipped off, and set them in the tray. They meant nothing to her and it felt good to just throw it away. She knew it wasn’t significant because she could race out to buy two more just like them, but maybe Tommy’s mom would find them and that would make her smile.
Her pager beeped. Damn, it was five-thirty, she saw on the Busch beer clock on the wall. Roger was probably wondering where the hell she was. She was supposed to be home, so he could get a quickie before he actually went home to Ellen. Before she walked out the side door, a white wooden jewelry box caught her eye. It looked like one she had when she was a little girl. She opened it and a little ballerina with a pink tutu popped out. She wound the music box and set it back on the shelf. The ballerina pirouetted and she was lost in her own thoughts listening to the simple notes of the song. She wished her life wouldn’t have gotten so complicated. Why did she choose to sacrifice her pride, prostituting her body for a little glitz and glamour when the things she longed for and treasured were what she had to start? Someday, she’d walk away, she promised herself she would. But for now, she had enormous bills to pay and she had become accustomed to her high-society lifestyle. She needed Roger, even though it was just to fill her pocket book, not to fulfill her life. Her pager beeped again. She quickly closed the box and left the garage, heading off to meet Roger.


Living in Gray
(Prompts italicized came fromPoe's "The Raven")

Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary, I held a flask touted to be a youth potion. Would it work? Would I feel spry, spunky and spirited? I stared at my wrinkled hands and wished for them to be smooth. I slammed the potion all in one gulp. I waited. Nothing happened. My bladder nudged me. Ah yes. Time for the hourly trip to the little girls’s room. I remember powdering my nose decades ago as my young gentleman caller waited. Had I taken too long?
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping.
“Are you alright in there?”
“Yes. I’ll be right out.” I remember feeling in a daze. Again my life had faded gray for awhile. What happened? Who stole the minutes from me? I walked down that fated hallway familiar, yet stark. No pictures, no color, no wallpaper to add flair—just white walls on each side. I entered the bathroom scared wondering if the potion will kick in or if again, I will lose more life and come out almost dead or worse. And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
I awake very foggy not knowing even who I am. A beautifully adorned room: velvet drapes, marble fireplace surrounded with slate, books—so many books I’ve never seen, and dark wallpaper in hues of burgundy and forest green. I sit up slowly remembering the last action: turning the knob to my bathroom door. Now, I look down. My body is youthful and shapely. I am draped in black velvet with satin gloves. My hair is up and a strand of pearls bedorns my neck. I am dreaming such a beautiful dream. I barely move afraid to awake from my slumber.
I notice a hallway, deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing what that tunnel held. I knew not to tempt myself and certainly to avoid the hallway. I like where I am immersed in rich colors. A wine glass sits on the cherry wood table beside me. I indulge. I savor the fruity flavor and fell how it burns my throat.
“Aaaaaaah!” I screamed and look down at my feet and I see the white walking Reebok’s I had on in my last awake moment. What is this? Some mental trip? Where am I? I try to stand, but I’m trembling and my legs buckle at the uncertainty of my location. I pray someone kind has me captive. Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Are you OK? Should I get help?’ Awake I grab the silver bars next to the toilet. I begin to sweat—cold horrible sweat. I know I must be dying.
“Mrs. Venton, are you OK? I tried buzzing for gosh, almost 45 minutes and you wouldn’t answer. Can you open up? I’m so worried. It’s way past time for your medication. You know what the doctor says about missing your intakes. Mrs. Venton? Lydia?”
“I….I….I’m ok, dear. I must have….f…f….fallen asleep. I will be right…” my voice trailed off unable to continue. Wake up! I scream inside. What is wrong with you!? Slowly, I open the door. And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.
“Get away! You wretched bird! You’ve haunted me my whole life mocking me, making me remember and forget! I hate you! Leave me along!” I scream at the large crow perched on Mary’s body where her head should be. Three hospital workers grab my arms and legs. The young nurse has my head.
“There, there, Mrs. Venton. You will be just fine. Ah, there. You’ve had your medicine. You will be your old spry, spunky, and spirited self in no time! My what pretty satin gloves you’re wearing. Have you had these long? I…”
Her voice faded into a hum as the meds oozed through my veins. The rich colors fade. Now, all I see is gray.