Category: short stories

fred

A short story.

“A middle-aged Chinese man’s well-oiled weekend plans are repeatedly-hampered by karmic intervention.”

I don’t want to hear another word about it! Now just get it done! They were almost thirty-feet separated and Freddie was screaming like it was a First Aid emergency. Rogelio wished it was a real emergency: like something had snapped and crushed Freddie, even in the forklift. Like a beam: a big beam would break from the rafters – like an act of God – and fall and land at just the right angle to impale Fred through the open roof of his lift, and then he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Rog recused himself before he fell down that depressive rabbit hole and ruined the rest of his shift: he wasn’t a young man anymore and couldn’t be bothered playing a young man’s game. But here was Fred again: driving too fast and too close for comfort off the main drag where the lifts were actually allowed. Rog put his head down and concentrated on his work, pretending not to notice as he knelt on old knees to pick up the product for stocking. But Fred must have felt Rog’s energy, because he screeched to a halt beside him, leaving barely-enough room for him to get off and down to Rog’s level. Well, not really: Fred was only five-foot-four. What’s your problem, Rog?
Problem? No problem, buddy. Rog was flustered & gasping for air, and trying his best to be diplomatic.
There’s something going on and I don’t know what it is. But I don’t want it to become a regular thing, OK?
What are you talking about?
Don’t think I haven’t been watching you. You’ve been frustrated for the last few days. And I don’t care what happened to you at home, just don’t take it out on me, OK? I’m trying to help you here.
Rog took a deep breath. …Fred, I’m very busy, OK? I don’t have time for your accusations.
I’m not accusing you of anything. What I’m saying to you is, you need a better attitude.
Attitude?
Your behavior! It sucks! Your work effort, too! You only have an hour left and look at how much you still have left to do!
OK OK OK, can you leave me alone now, please?
What, are you trying to get rid of me now?
Yes! I told you I’m busy! You dropped too much again! Now please go away!
I know that you’re busy, and I don’t like over-dropping any more than you do, but it’s what Kathy wants. That’s your job, right? To do what your manager wants? Not what you feel like. I just want to make sure that you know, that I’m working in your best interest, here.
Best interest? What are you talking about, best interest? You think that by making me stock all this heavy stuff so quickly that I’m not going to be paying the price tomorrow?
Oh, so you can call in sick again? That’s typical.
That’s your fault, buddy! That’s what I’m saying to you, man. You never stack any of the smaller pallets so I have to bend down so far to pick everything up and it hurts my back! You never put any of my short-stacks in steel and make me condense everything! And now there’s an hour left in my shift and I still have to finish the moves and clean up, and you’re dropping more? Because you think I need more to do? Fuck you, if you think that!
Fuck me?
Fuck you, Fred! You are an asshole, man!
Excuse me, you’d better watch your fucking language around me.
Or what?
Or we’re going to have a problem!
We already have a problem! You!
There’s nothing wrong with me! You don’t know me!
Everything’s wrong with you! Who says you get to talk to other employees this way? You aren’t a manager! You’re just a driver!
You’d better bet that Kathy is going to hear about this!
What, you going to run away now? Buddy, I’m just getting started!
You’re the asshole, Rog! You knew this was the last day before my vacation! Fred drove away at full-speed and Rog suffered his wrath for the rest of his shift. And as he wiped the sweat from his brow as he squatted by a pallet he was wrapping – his lungs panting and his heart racing and his back throbbing and only twenty minutes left in his shift; and his manager Katherine behind him, yelling at him about what he said to Fred and that he needed to stand up and explain himself right now – Rog cursed Fred under his breath. Worse than any wish of death or bodily dismemberment. Rog knew that he didn’t have any supernatural powers – or, at least, none that had awakened yet – but he’d heard of “The Secret” and the law of attraction and thought that, maybe, if he wanted it bad enough, it would happen. Yes, Fred needed to be taught a lesson. A lesson that was beyond Rog’s reach to teach in the material world. He cursed Fred, and his vacation, and his family, and anything else tied to him. His best friend in High School. His wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, whoever he was with. His parents. Him. And then he stood up.

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let it go

A short story.

“A widower takes audacious measures to overcome his personal guilt over his partner’s death.”

“Did she make you cry
Make you break down
And shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now?
Do you know how?
Pick up the pieces and go home.”

– “Gold Dust Woman” by Stevie Nicks

*

That night, Trevor watched The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and the next morning he called-in sick to work. Rachel Brosnahan. She looked just like her, only without the blond hair. He had watched the season from the beginning, and it was funny and painful in equal measure. And then there was the flashback, to when Midge did have blond hair, and it was like he was instantly-transported to his past. He couldn’t even pay attention to the show: he was so transfixed by this celebrity, this actress, out of his reach; a candle to his former flame. An imitation. As the show played, he reclined further in to the couch with his bottle of Wiser’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched his glass but he knew he was too-far-gone to reach for it now. From bottle to glass. He took a swig and let the TV carry on while his eyes darted around his living room of their own accord, looking for anything to rest on that wasn’t her. Why was he still watching? Because it was like a photograph he never took. A post he never saved. She was an idea, and then Rachel made her real again. It was coming up on ten years since Liz had died and try as he may there wasn’t any way to get around it. To relax. To take his mind off of her. Elizabeth Greer. Every show he turned to seemed to be a love story. His coffee table was strewn with artifacts from a life he knew before: trinkets from other girls that stood testament to missed opportunities; books he had stopped reading who knows how long ago, when his memory began its deadly choke-hold. That was the only way he was able to remember her now; her face, her manner: through the eyes of people paid to mock him and his affliction, as far as he was concerned. Rachel was beautiful in her own way but paled in comparison to Liz.

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a boy walks into a bar

A micro story read in-the-style-of Sam Elliott.

I reckon that’s whiskey you’re drinking there, partner. Me, too. Nothing beats the stuff. Seems to go down smoother each time you drink it. Me, I’ve been drinking the stuff longer than I can recall. Longer than I bet your momma ever been with your pops! Yep, I’ve been around a while. Long enough to see a few things in my time. Things that change a man. I reckon there’s less out there that makes a man a man than the life he already lives. And what’s a life without learning a few lessons along the way, huh? Lessons that I can pass down? That’s right, I’m going to tell you a story…

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katherine with a k

A micro-story.

What time is it? Did you even set the alarm? Why do I have to wake up so early? Why can’t I wake up earlier than this instead of rolling around for an hour? Why can’t my shifts start when I’m actually awake? Why can’t I turn off my alarm? Why won’t it shut up? Why won’t my husband get up when I do? Why doesn’t he get my coffee ready like he used to? What’s wrong with me? Why do I stay with him? Wouldn’t I be happier alone? Or living with my daughter and her babies? Why can’t I take the initiative and retire? Why won’t this fucking coffee maker work properly? Did I put the water in the right place? Is it plugged in? Why does it smell like something is burning? Should I look under the lid? Why is there smoke? Why did I set it and not add water first? Why am I blaming myself? Why isn’t it his problem? Why is he so stupid? Why does this needle hurt so much? Why is my blood sugar so high? How much stress can one woman take?

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3517

A micro-story.

the enormity of life confronts us all. i stand before a wall that separates me from my better half. this wall stretches the imagination, and i am alone. like a scrapbook it is covered in photos of people i knew; who i had lost; who had lost me. but as my bare toes sink in to the warm sand, i am not afraid. i am full of love. with a gentle push, this wall comes tumbling down. and the blue sky above me no longer splits across its middle but extends into the horizon, where a still blue ocean sits below and the sound of waves crashing rests miles away. i am in my happy place: a cove, a short swim around an inlet on oahu. any time i would visit, there wouldn’t be another living soul: like i was the first. in truth it was inconvenient enough for the kids and the families, but we were not the first. no one can be the first: not anymore. i sit in reverence to those who came before me, whose drawings are carved along the cavern walls. drawings that tell a story: one with layers, a new one uncovered with every visit.

//jf 6.6.2020

 

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