Nebulous Mooch

Here’s a very short story based on a true story I heard just the other day.

Melinda Jenkins

Melinda Jenkins watched the people at the party sipping drinks and eating finger foods. They talked loudly and laughed open-mouthed. Most of them were disgusting. They had such a variety of flaws from large crooked noses to outdated outfits. Some had gaps in their teeth and others had red blotchy skin. After scanning the room carefully, Melinda settled on Dave.

“…and that’s how I got to fly on the company plane.” Dave ended yet another long, dull story meant to impress.

Melinda sipped her drink and laughed politely. He was a braggart. He’d spent the entire evening telling one impressive story after another. His teeth were crooked and yellow. He talked with his mouth full. And he was fat. His belly hung over his belt and his shirt buttons strained to stay closed. There were so many things wrong with him that it was difficult for Melinda to pick just one. She glanced down at her watch, “Where did the time go? I have to get going,” she said.

“So early.” Dave set his glass on the table next to him and took a few steps closer to her.

“Yeah. I have to get up early tomorrow. You know how it is?” Melinda started walking to the door.

Dave followed. “That’s too bad. I really enjoyed talking to you.”

She checked her hair in the mirror near the door. Every hair was still perfectly in place–frozen by a generous coating of hairspray. She took her red trench coat from the coat rack and slid into it. She buttoned it and as she carefully tied the belt around her waist in a neat square knot she scanned the crowded room for the host of the party.

This is the way it usually happened. She’d wait until they were saying goodbye. Then she’d lean in to give them a hug and just then she’d whisper their flaw into their ear. Usually the person wouldn’t quite  understand what she’d said. They’d smile and nod in agreement. Some would even thank her. The ugly are so stupid, she’d often think.

Even as she leaned in to give Dave his goodbye hug she was still deciding what she should say. “You’re fat,” she whispered quietly in his ear as she pulled away from him. She emphasized the “t” at the end of fat for effect.

Maybe she’d misjudged the noise level in the room or the volume of her voice. Maybe despite all his other flaws Dave had particularly good hearing. She didn’t know what she’d done wrong, but she knew she’d blown it as soon as she saw his face.

At first his expression was blank. Then he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “What?” he said.

“Nothing. I have to go.” She opened the door to leave. She’d have to call the host tomorrow and apologize for leaving without saying goodbye.

“Did you just call me fat?” Dave yelled out the door as she walked to her car.

When Melinda got into her car he was still yelling at her. She calmly started the engine and pulled away.

This is a story I wrote just now, based on a dream I had last week. The dream was a lot more complicated, but I could never fit all of the details into less than 1000 words.

Tinfoil

Kelly left her spoon in her bowl of half eaten soup and crossed the restaurant to talk to him. She left her purse unattended on the chair. Her wallet and car keys huddled inside.

She’d watched him for thirty minutes now as he ate his frittata and read Watership Down. At points he’d lower the book, glance around the restaurant, and chuckle. The last few bites of his frittata growing cold. The fork abandoned beside the plate.

It was lunchtime and the restaurant was full of office workers on their breaks talking about company business and company gossip, but Kelly didn’t see any of them. She only saw him. She heard him from the moment he walked in the door–the sound his bruised, brown cowboy boots made clipping the tile floor as he walked in, the sound of his hoarse voice as he placed his order. He unbutton his gray tweed jacket. His double chin hung over his beige turtle neck. His skin was reddened from the heat and the sun.

Waiters crossed her path with trays stacked high with plates of sandwiches and salads. As she approached him, she could smell burnt leaves a much more comfortable smell than she expected. She stood next to his table and breathed in deeply.

He let out a loud guffaw and looked up from his book to see a short, round, brown woman standing beside him. Her straightened hair pulled into a neat bun at the nap of her neck.

“I know you have horns under that hat,” Kelly said. There was probably a better way to break the ice, but she was never much for ice breaking.

“Really?” he took off his gray tweed hat to reveal close cropped brown hair thinning at the crown. “What else do you know?” He winked at her.

Kelly couldn’t let this fluster her. She knew. Even though he wasn’t exactly what she’d expected, she knew. She pulled the chair out across from him and sat down. She couldn’t walk away now. It had already started. “I know who you are.”

He laughed again. “I’m glad somebody does. It’s hard to get any recognition in this town.”

Kelly expected black fangs, but his teeth were slightly yellowed and crowded on the bottom. “I have something for you.” She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a piece of tinfoil three inches square. The foil had been crinkled and smoothed and crinkled and smoothed again. Pin sized holes in its center let the light through. One of the corners was missing and another folded over. She held it out to him.

“What’s that?” He put his book down, squinted and leaned in like he couldn’t quite see it.

“I thought you’d know.”

“It looks like a piece of aluminum foil.”

“That’s what it is.”

“Why would I want that?”

Kelly’s hand remained suspended in the middle of the table. “I don’t know. I thought you’d know…My grandmother gave this to me when I was eight. She told me if I ever saw you to give it to you. She told me you’d know what to do with it.”

“She must’ve been insane. And you obviously believed her.”

“She was convincing.”

“I’m sure she was. Crazy people usually are.” He leaned back in his chair and placed his hat back on his head. “Look if you want to offer me something useful like your soul, I’m ready. But I can get tinfoil at Walmart…”

Kelly pulled back her hand and placed it and the foil it contained in her lap. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I can’t believe that you were so sure you’d meet me one day that held on to that for…how long?

“25 years,” she sighed.

He laughed and smacked the edge of the table with his hand. “25 years.”

Kelly stood up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No bother at all. I’m always up for a good laugh.”

She turned her back and walked away with his sharp laughter cutting into her. The restaurant suddenly came alive to her. Everyone was talking and laughing—talking and laughing at her. She dropped the foil on the floor . It wasn’t the same piece her grandmother had given her anyway. She’d lost that long ago, but that didn’t matter anymore.

The chime rang as she pulled the door open and stepped out into the summer heat.

So I’ve thinking a lot about leprosy,  as I’m sure most people do, and I’ve decided I want to write a short story about it. I didn’t want to write about the body-parts-falling-off-unrealistic kind of leprosy. That’s so overdone in short fiction. I wanted to write a more realistic and subtle portrayal of leprosy. (Can you call leprosy subtle?) Anyway this is my first attempt. You can look forward to more leprosy stories in the future.

A Break-Up

“I just don’t think this is working out,” he said.

Michelle looked around the crowded restaurant. She was the only one there alone. She looked down at the ironed white tablecloth, the spotless silverware placed just so, fork, knife, spoon. She should’ve known something was wrong when he didn’t show up on time. Jerome was always on time.

“Did you hear me?” His voice shoot into her through the phone.

She looked down and cupped her hand around her mouth to muffle her voice. “I thought everything was working out great…”She could feel a black hole forming in her stomach. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this over the phone.”

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised, Michelle. I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks. I mean, come on…you must’ve known.”

“Known what? I thought things were great. I mean I thought we were all good. You can’t do this to me, Jerome.” She felt the tears coming. They were creeping up from her chest making her neck and face hot. She had to try her best to hold them back. She didn’t want to be one of those hysterical women crying in public. “I mean we were having fun, weren’t we?”

“There’s more to life then just fun.”

“What kind of thing is that to say? What’s that supposed to mean, Jerome?”

“It means I would like to settle down. I don’t know maybe have some kids,” he paused. “I want to stop wasting time.”

“Good. I want kids too and a house in the country and all that…”

“I don’t want to have kids with you…”

Her heart stopped. She took the phone from her ear and pressed the red button to end the call. She pressed it again and held it down to turn her phone off. She took a tissue from her purse and dried her eyes. She called the waiter over and ordered a chicken Caesar salad. While she waited for the food to come, she looked at her upside down reflection in the spoon. She traced the edge of her knife with her finger. She listened the to people laughing at the next table.

That’s when she first noticed the white spot on the back of her hand just under her thumb. It was smaller than a dime and shaped like Texas. She ran her index finger across the white sandy feeling skin, such a contrast from the smooth coco that surrounded it.

Her food arrived. She ate it slowly picking out the croûton and placing them in a neat stack at the side of her plate.

A week passed and he never even tried to call her back. Michelle had taken to eating alone in restaurants. It made her feel less lonely, like she was part of something. She’d listen in on other people’s conversations. Sometimes she’d imagine Jerome sitting across from her laughing showing off his perfectly white straight teeth, making jokes about the people at the tables around them.

She liked to follow couples on the street and try to hear their intimate conversations. She liked to imagine that those conversations were hers. The white spot on her hand felt like a million pin pricks. It grew slowly and changed shape. She started wearing gloves, white cotton ones like women in old movies to hide it.

In the evenings she’d walk to the phone booth down the street from her apartment to call him. She liked to hear the clink of the coins as she put them into the slot. She’d wait through the ring for his voice. “Hello?” he’d say. He always answered. “Hello?” she still loved the sound of his voice. She could hear the television in the background, sometimes the news, sometimes a sitcom, sometimes commercials. “Hello?” He always said three “helloes” before hanging up. Only then would she speak into the darkness of the city streets, “I thought everything was working out greatt.”

Michelle’s apartment started shrinking around her as the spot on her hand grew–the white walls pushing out, the white skin pushing out. Her fingers curled in. The knuckles ached and swelled. She kept her gloved hand in her pocket.

Sometimes she’d stand outside of his 7th floor apartment. She could only see the ceiling through the window from the street. Sometimes he’d walk by the window and even from a distance she could tell he hadn’t changed at all.

He stood at the window for a few moments looking out. She wondered if he could see her standing there at the bus stop. She wanted to wave and call his name, but she couldn’t. She stood as still as she could until he closed the blinds. She waited for a moment before shoving her mingled hand into her pocket and walking back to her apartment. Her nails digging into her palm.

Oops again. I forgot to post yesterday. I’m not sure how I managed that. Forgetting to post doesn’t usually happen to me. Anyway, here’s some flash fiction for you. Hope you forgive me for posting it a day late.

Fallen

Sterling didn’t remember hitting the ground. The blacktop pressed against his cheek, cold and unyielding. The blood that had gathered around him was beginning to thicken and cool.

Training his eyes on a black circular shape a few feet in front of him he tried to focus. When his eyes finally stopped blurring he used his right hand to push himself over onto his back. His left arm was numb and lifeless. Looking up there were no stars. Not even the moon was out. He could only see the pinkish neon glow that illuminated the sky every night, obscuring the stars.

He rolled to his right arm and used it to push himself into a sitting position. His head throbbed and his face was stiff with dried blood. There was no way of knowing how long he had laid there. He closed his eyes tightly and inhaled. His lungs refused to fill and he coughed painfully.

Sterling’s mind was like molasses as he struggled to stand. His feet tried to make sense of what he was doing. When he was finally able to stand, he remembered. The isolation he had felt all of his life crept up from behind and he remembered everything.

His life wasn’t the kind of life that appeared particularly bad to outsiders. Drowning in the tediousness of the day-to-day, he needed something more. Sterling lived a life of inescapable loneliness. He had no one in his life to talk to or depend on. He never had. He was never close to his parents or his brothers. They all seemed to live worlds apart. His quiet awkwardness made it difficult for him to make friends. His intense stare scared most people away. He didn’t know what to talk about. Unlike others with his social difficulties he was never good in school. Lacking education and drive he ended up working as a cashier in a convenience store. For ten years he had the same job and was never moved up to manager. He was a disappointment to everyone that knew him and it was time to end it. Stop disappointing.

He leaned on an old white Toyota in the parking lot trying to balance. Then as he pushed off from the car to get the momentum to walk towards the front door of the apartment he left a smear off blood on the hood. He walked through the door, which was standing open to the stairs. The motion sensor lights came on as he entered the hallway. Light bounced off of the white walls sending a flash of white, blinding light deep into his forehead. He gripped the wooden rail of the stairs and stopped for a minute to rest. He closely examined his left arm. A jagged piece of bone poked through the skin just below his elbow. In his head he said a small prayer as he lifted his leg to begin climbing the stairs. He was unsure as to whom he was praying or what he was even praying about. It was more like a chant than a pray. More like counting than chanting. Lifting one foot after another, ignoring the pain that shoot throughout his body, devouring him, he counted his disappointments until he could feel them no more. He was floating. Floating above his pain, both the physical of the present and the emotional of the past. He was lifted by the hand of grace to the top of the stairs.

The red iron door to the roof was heavy but he found the strength to open it. Out on the roof once again. In the starless night he could hear the wind as the city slept. It caressed his face and comforted his walk to the edge like the friend he had always longed for. The first time he jumped he didn’t consider the landing. He should have. Four floors wasn’t’ high enough to kill someone unless they landed just right. He stood at the edge toes hanging over the ledge. He breathed in and out, counted to ten and then stepped off.

My short story, “Weekend Special” was published today. You can read it on Everyday Fiction’s website.

I’d been trying to get them to publish one of my flash fiction stories forever and I was so tried of getting rejected that I sent them this story–which I think is garbage. I wrote it as an assignment for a writers’ group I was in briefly. Anyway, they published it. Go figure.

Read it here.

Inkwell is having a fiction contest and I have to put the first part of the story here and link back to the story on their blog. If you want to read the whole story check out the comments in this post about the contest. Here’s the first paragraph.

How could she have known that simply crossing the street would mean so much? Grace was simply trying to stay dry when she dashed across Vine Street to the cover of the green awning jutting out over the outside produce display at the local grocer’s. She was standing in front of the melons fishing through her large black bag for the umbrella she swore was in there somewhere when she felt a jarring force hit her hip. She steadied herself and looked down to find the source…