When You’re Down, You’re Down

Ever so slowly, the air bubble lumbered upward, its journey the reverse of the wreck now resting permanently on the sandy ocean floor. The slight disturbance of the water's surface as the bubble burst signaled the end of a particularly unhappy journey.

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Postscript: This was another exercise in Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

Zeke

Old Zeke was a jerk, there was no doubt about that. A list of his redeeming qualities would be shorter than his temper, shorter than his nose hair, and certainly shorter than his rap sheet.

But here was the thing: Zeke was the best pest-removal man in the county, the best I’ve ever seen. Folks would tolerate his limited people skills and disgusting personal habits because they knew they could count on him to get rid of everything from ‘possums in the attic to mice in the kitchen. And the critters never came back; I don’t know what he did, but it was effective. It was not something you wanted to watch, people said.

For years, I was able to keep my distance from Zeke. My place was mostly pest-free, nothing I couldn’t handle myself. Our paths rarely crossed, and when they did, I tried my best to avoid eye contact, or anything else that might set Zeke off.

Everything changed last week, when something ate my dog one night. Beau was a good dog. He slept on the porch, and he was a better security system than any alarm. I had just drifted off to sleep when I heard Beau start to bark. I think that’s what he was trying to do. It was a weird sound, and then it just stopped. I could hear something moving around on the porch, and then out in the yard, so I grabbed my shotgun and opened the door.

I think of myself as a pretty tough guy, but I have to admit I wasn’t prepared for the carnage I saw in the front of my house. Suffice it to say that there wasn’t anything left of Beau to bury. I knew right away I was gonna have to call Zeke.

As I explained the situation over the telephone, Zeke interrupted. “Don’t touch nothin’. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.” And he was, rumbling up in his ugly, old green pickup truck. He stepped out of the truck, and I could tell by the smell he’d been drinking - and not bathing.

He limped around my yard, pausing now and then to lean down and pick up a piece of Beau. He’d sniff whatever it was in his hand, eye it closely, and I’d swear he licked one piece. Finally, he sat down on the porch steps, coughed into a red bandana for about five minutes, then looked up at me.

“Zombie ate your dog.”

That’s not what I was expecting to hear, let me tell you.

“Zeke, what the Hell are you talking about? Zombie my ass!” I hissed. “Wolves, maybe. If you’re not gonna take this seriously...”

Zeke stood and stared me in the eye so long that I blinked and looked away.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he said quietly. “I’m not gonna explain it to you. Not gonna tell you about the type of punctures left behind in the dog meat. I know it was a zombie that done it.

“You want me to take care of it or not?”

I nodded my head, feeling a little too freaked out to speak.

Zeke nodded too.

“I’ll come back tomorrow night,” he said. “You make sure everything’s locked up tight, and don’t come outside ‘til the next morning. Then you can go get yourself another dog.” Without another word, he got back into his truck and rumbled off.

As you can imagine, it was hard to concentrate on work the next day. I kept thinking about what Zeke said.

Zombies.

Damn.

Night finally rolled in, and I did like Zeke said. I locked all the doors, made sure the windows were shut tight and the curtains drawn. I sat in a chair with my shotgun to keep me company, waiting.

Just past midnight, I heard Zeke’s truck coming up the drive. He killed the engine, and I could hear the rusty hinges of his door swinging open and shut. Then, nothing. Crickets, for a long time. Pretty sure Zeke was sitting on the front steps.

The next sound I heard will be with me to the grave. A moan? Was that what it was? It was low, and sounded painful. Did Zeke make that sound? Or something else? Pretty soon I heard it again, only now it was coming from the side of the house, sounded like. Then there were two moans at the same time, and it was all I could do to keep from screaming myself.

I’ll always be glad the curtains were drawn, because I did not want to see what made the sounds I heard next. The moans were replaced by scuffling sounds, and something that sounded like a ripe melon hitting the ground. Then ripping noises for a long, long time.

When morning finally, blessedly, came, I slowly opened the front door and peeked outside. It looked a lot like it had the night before, so I went around back to get the hose. There were scratches all over the front of the house, and Zeke’s truck still sat in the driveway. Blood soaking everything, of course. I tripped while rounding the corner of the house, and when I looked down, I saw a hand. Just a hand. Clutching a red bandana.

We never saw Zeke again, but no one in the county could truthfully say they missed him. Come to think of it, everyone’s pest problems pretty much went away about the same time. So maybe Zeke’s still out there.

Me? I went and got another dog.

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Postscript: This was another exercise in Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

Any Landing You Walk Away From...

He was coming in hot, no question about it. Colliding with that silvery thing (A balloon? So high up?), whatever it was, shortly after descending into the atmosphere, rendered his craft’s steering and air-braking ability almost useless.

Almost.

He pulled with all his might on the stick, and he could feel the craft begin to level off...or, at least, not plummet quite so crazily toward the landmass growing ever-larger in his view screen. Populated areas appeared fairly small and scattered about; there was plenty of green to aim for a landing. He figured that he needed an area at least five times the diameter of his ship to put it down safely. Was that evidence of agriculture on the horizon? That might work....

Still too fast.

His options were dwindling. Eject? No. Too close to the small population center now presenting itself on the edge of the agricultural area. A good pilot, and he was a good pilot, would never punch out and let his craft plunge, uncontrolled, into innocent victims. It was time to ride it out, for better or worse.

Impact alarms sounded in his ears, an unnecessary reminder of what was about to happen. At the last instant, he released the stick and covered his face with his hands, anticipating the worst.

His craft struck the ground hard, but flat, tearing a furrow through the tall, green vegetation as its speed dissipated. As it came to a stop, after what seemed like an eternity but was only a few heartbeats, he dropped his hands away from his face. He was alive, and with only a few bumps and bruises as souvenirs of his crash landing.

The ship was another matter. It would be a total loss, definitely not space-worthy anymore. Getting home was going to be difficult.

He worked quickly to extricate himself from the wreckage. Standing atop the remains of his craft, he could see that he had landed almost exactly in the middle of the field for which he had aimed.

Not bad.

Tall stalks, bristling with seeds, surrounded him and his craft. The vegetation was taller than he was, but it was perfect for his next task.  Using a dislodged support beam from his craft, he began to flatten the vegetation around him in an ever-widening circular pattern. It was the distress signal his people always used, and it would be visible from a great height.

He made his way to the edge of the field and sat down on the flat ground. Rescue would, hopefully, come soon.

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Postscript: This was another exercise in Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

Daylight Fades

There was magic in the feel of the wood in his hands, 33 ounces of perfection from the barrel to the knob. He smiled as he gripped the bat in both hands, feeling the tackiness of the pine tar sucking at his batting gloves. A few quick practice swings, and he could feel the catch in his right shoulder, a now constant reminder of thousands of previous swings, a ledger of games and times at bat that stretched back more than 30 years.

He could hear his name now, echoing from the speakers scattered around the ballpark. There was a smattering of applause, an uneven sound so unlike the roar of frenzied crowds that had once chanted his name. Late afternoon shadows covered home plate as he stepped into the batters box. The catcher gave him a nod as he dug into the soft dirt with his right foot and raised his bat above his right shoulder. With a tilt of his head, he eyed the pitcher standing atop the mound, bathed in the fading light of the last day of the season. His bat twitched as he breathed deeply of the cool autumn air.

This was so familiar, this ritual.

“C’mon, Jimmy! Take it for a ride,” his father shouted, and he was seven years old again, his batting helmet sliding up and down on his head as he waited for the pitch from a kid who seemed to be twice his size. It was his first organized baseball game, his first time at bat, and that feeling in the pit of his stomach - what was it? Nausea? Butterflies?

He saw the pitch all the way in, that was the thing that amazed him. He swung, and he knew (knew!) he would hit it. With a ping, the baseball jumped off his aluminum Little League bat (the red one with the black rubber grip), and he was running, as fast as he could, toward first base. Safe! And as he turned around, he could see his father and mother standing in the bleachers, shouting his name and clapping.

“Strike!” called the umpire, his right hand firing out to the side for emphasis. He hadn’t seen that one well at all, the collision of shadows and sunlight masking the speed and slight movement of the fastball. Now that was unfamiliar; doubt. Where once the baseball had seemed as fat as a basketball coming toward him, more and more it seemed to disappear, as if taunting him.

He stepped out of the batters box, pounded the bat on the ground and then swung, hard. His bad shoulder barked at him, and he grimaced. The pain, he hoped, would help him focus as he stepped back in. He smiled grimly at the pitcher, crouching in his stance.

“Hey rookie! Don’t smile at the pitcher,” the manager yelled, the words piercing the cloud of tobacco juice spewing from his mouth. Why not, he wondered to himself. The answer came as a fastball aimed just behind his head, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

So many rules to learn in rookie league ball; so many of them unwritten. He didn’t know yet what he didn’t know, but there was one thing he could guarantee: he would hit. A lot.

Now the pitcher was smiling, as he stepped back to the plate, his white jersey now striped with dirt from the brushback. His bat quivered over his shoulder, barely able to contain his anticipation, his raw energy as he awaited the pitch. Fastball, dancing over the inside of the plate.

Crack! and the baseball arced high and was over the right field wall before he could drop the bat and run. “Not bad, kid,” the manager said as he trotted back to the dugout. He felt an afterglow of pure joy as his new teammates slapped him on the back, a feeling he would know again and again across the years.

“Strike!” His swing, a thing of beauty, compact, powerful, was now a beat or two slow and came up empty as the ball popped the catcher’s mitt. He cursed himself, silently. He’d seen the ball well that time, but missed badly on the slider, which had been so easy for him to hit for so long. Stepping out of the box again, he pulled off his batting helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm. He paused for a moment, squeezing the bat in his hands. He still felt the magic, but now there was something else there. Was it fear?

He carried this new feeling, along with his bat, back into the box. One last chance.

“We did it Jimmy!” He heard his teammate Andre’s voice, but couldn’t see him with the champagne stinging his eyes. “Champions, baby!” And he had gripped the trophy like it was a life raft. Was he floating? All he could feel, there in the midst of the clubhouse celebration, was the joy, and a feeling of certainty that all this would last forever.

And now he was swinging, the certainty gone, chased away by fear, and the realization that he was overmatched by this young pitcher. His shoulder screamed with pain, and he cried out as the ball thumped into the catcher’s mitt again.

“Strike three,” called the umpire, needlessly. He stood, almost in shock, in the batter’s box, and all those cherished moments, all those triumphs came rushing back, an athlete’s life flashing before his eyes. He looked down at his bat again, and he knew the magic was gone.

He walked back to the dugout, and sat quietly for a long time, his eyes staring but seeing nothing.

It was over.

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Postscript: This was another exercise in Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

We Made a Deal With the Clowns

Clowns indoctrinate a little girl, replacing her
brain with a paper chain.

It was a dark day in El Reno, the day the clowns came. At first, we attributed the rise in clown sightings on the circus, which had come through town the week before. You'd turn down an aisle in the grocery store and find yourself face to face with a clown - red ball nose, curly green hair, impossibly large shoes. The greasepaint on their faces would crack slightly when the smiled or yawned, and then you caught a glimpse of their fangs.
Family pets began to disappear, then the elderly. We didn't make the connection for weeks, and when we did, it was far too late.
   A clown moved into the apartment next to mine. Every night, as I returned home from work, the clown would stand in his open doorway, staring at me as I walked up the stairs. He never spoke (none of them did), but he would squeeze the bulb on his little horn and give me a honk as I went inside.
   People started attacking the clowns, trying to run them out of town. Turns out it's really hard to kill a clown. You can hit them, you can run them over with a car, you can fire them out of a cannon -- nothing. By the time we found out how to get rid of them, it was almost too late.
   As a reporter for the El Reno Daily Tribune, I covered the city government beat. I'll never forget the night I attended the City Council meeting and the Mayor was interrupted by the squeak-squeak-squeak of clowns marching into the council chambers. Someone told me later that he counted 20 clowns climbing out of a beat-up Ford Pinto that pulled up outside City Hall. They presented their list of demands to the mayor; it was written on a 200-foot long handkerchief that the Head Clown (who liked to be called Skeevy) pulled out of his pants pocket.

A little boy is transformed into a clown in front
of his horrified classmates.

   "We want your children," the list began. "Because no one will knowingly marry a clown, we must take children to replenish our numbers. We will select one girl, and one boy, from the elementary school once a week.
   "In return," the note concluded, "we will let you live." After the Mayor finished reading the demands, the clowns began honking their horns rapidly, in unison. All over town, the townspeople heard honking horns. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of clowns.
   We didn't know what else to do. So we made a deal with the clowns.
  Starting the next morning, clowns methodically examined all the children at the elementary school, and culled out two and took them away in front of their horrified classmates. Attendance plummeted.
   This went on for months. Eventually, clowns occupied 7 of the 9 city council seats, and they also took over the largest bank in town. A dull blanket of dread settled over El Reno, as clowns on unicycles raced back and forth on the streets at all hours.
   Our salvation came by accident. One afternoon a clown strode into the Texaco convenience store (squeak-squeak-squeak) to buy candy. They always bought lots of candy, paying with colorful pieces of paper that they insisted were as good as money. On this particular day, the clerk was playing a Michael Bolton CD. The clown cocked his head to one side, and his quizzical expression quickly transformed into a mask of pain. He opened his mouth and screamed silently, pink clown saliva glinting off his fangs. The clown pulled off his round red nose, and tried to stick it in his ear to silence the awful sound coming from the boom box on the counter. Where the nose had been, was now a gaping hole in the clown's face. Realizing too late what he had done, the clown tried to put his nose back. With a slight whooshing sound, his head caved in, and he fell to the floor, dead.
  Word spread fast. Michael Bolton CDs sold out at WalMart in 20 minutes, and soon the dreadful sound of his music was everywhere. Clowns died by the score.
   We managed to turn off the music before regular people started killing themselves. The horrible spell was broken, the town was saved. The clowns who weren't already dead quickly left town.
   Except for the clowns on the City Council. They served out the remainder of their terms.

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Postscript: This is clearly not true. No children were harmed. But admit it: clowns are scary as hell, aren't they?

I Got Nature All Over Me

Jeremiah screamed as the tarantula scampered across his chest. His heart pounded so hard he swore he could hear it. Clearly, there would be no more sleep tonight.

This wilderness survival exercise seemed like a lark; how hard could it be to survive one night in the forest, with no tent, no sleeping bag, no camping gear? Very hard, as it turned out.

He forgot the bug spray, and less than an hour after the group dropped him off along the trail, he was itching like crazy. Mosquitoes orbited his head constantly, their high-pitched whine never leaving his ears, no matter how he waved his hands and swatted. It was the chigger bites that itched the most.

He lay down in a crease near the top of a ravine, less than 20 yards from the trail. Other members of the group talked of building rudimentary shelters out of tree branches, but Jeremiah thought the best course was to go minimal and just get through the night.

The tarantula was proof that he was wrong.

Listen to the Beat of the Doldrums

At first Dave thought he was sick, or something. For going on two weeks, he felt listless, always tired, and noticeably irritable. Normally very active, Dave was content to lie on the couch, for hours on end. His life ground to a virtual halt, with the annoying exception of his job.

“I don’t know what it is, man. Don’t feel like doing anything,” Dave confided to Marv, the man in the next cubicle. “Maybe I’m coming down with something....”

Marv stood up so he could look over the partition that separated his desk from Dave’s.

“Dude! You’re not sick; if anything, you’re completely normal,” Marv said. “Look around this place...do you see anyone jumping for joy?”

Dave shoved a foot against his desk, causing his desk chair to glide into the aisle. He looked around, listened. A low mumbling seemed to emanate from every cubicle, an almost mournful sound that would have screamed “blah” if only it could muster the energy.

“It happens like this every year, at the end of the summer,” Marv said. “This is your first year here, so you haven’t been able to adapt completely.”

Dave scooted back into his cubicle, and sighed as he stared at his computer monitor.

“So ennui is contagious around here?” he said, mustering a dry chuckle.

Marv stood up again.

“If you can muster the strength to make a joke, then you’re not as far gone as the rest of us,” Marv said. “Seriously, you’re wearing me out.”
“So when does everyone snap out of it?” Dave asked. He knew he was about to lose Marv’s attention, and the closest thing to an interesting conversation he’d had in a week.

“What? Who says we ever do?” Marv forced out a sigh of his own, popped in his ear buds, and melted into the background.

Dave sat for a while, pondering Marv’s words, thinking about the lethargic environment that threatened to trap him, like an insect in amber.

I probably could own this place, this whole town, Dave thought. All I have to do is fight off the creeping torpor...stand out in the crowd...make a name for myself. He stood, stretched, enticed by the opportunity that awaited him.

Eh, he thought. Maybe later.

Dave slumped back into his chair.

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Postscript: This was another exercise in Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

Funeral for a Bastard

“My friends, we come together today to bid farewell to Bob, who I think we can all agree lived a long, long life. In fact, I thought this day might not come at all. It would not have surprised me in the least if the old bastard outlived every single one of us.

“Now, I can hear you gasp, out there in the audience. But let’s be honest - Bob was a bastard. He was...and I can see that more than a few of you are nodding your heads in agreement. I think we do him a disservice if we don’t talk about Bob the way he really was.

“Joe, you grew up with Bob, which means you knew him the longest. No, don’t get up...the ushers stashed your walker back in the back. I remember Joe telling the story of how, when he and Bob were six years old, they accidentally broke a neighbor’s window while they were playing baseball. Bob ran and hid, and Joe, you took the rap for it and had to pay for the window.

“Friends, that is just one early example. Bob did a lot worse over the years. Right, Mary Jo? Don’t worry, I won’t tell that story, because I’m sure you never told your husband.

“I met Bob twenty-five years ago, when I interviewed for a position at his firm. He gave me the creeps at first, but I had no viable alternative, so I took the job. Old Bob, maybe he sensed that I was naive, or maybe he thought I was stupid. I don’t think it really matters either way, though I’ve thought about that a lot over the years - especially during my unfortunate incarceration. There is a fine line between protege and fall guy....

“We’ve all heard the stories of Bob’s generosity, but we also know the stories of his cruelty, his selfishness. Those stories didn’t make the papers, but there’s no question that they were true. Anybody here from the Kiwanis Club? You guys know what I’m talking about.

“In the end, I think we all bear responsibility for Bob’s bastard-hood. After all, we were witnesses to his behavior...but we were mute witnesses. Maybe we were afraid of Bob. Maybe we thought our silence would be rewarded. I don’t know. What I do know is, Bob is dead, and I, for one, am not sad about that. I’m sad I never stood up to him, and I’m sad none of you did either.

“Now, let’s go bury Bob. Then, drinks are on me.”

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Postscript: This was another exercise in Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

A Good Soaking

It was raining. For the first time in months, dark clouds rolled in and expelled fat raindrops, the kind that drench anyone standing outside in the time it takes to say, “Uh oh, where’s my umbrella.”

The heat wave, and drought, had sucked the life out of everything in town. No one, nothing, was immune from it. People walked quickly, heads down, tolerating the hellish summer only as long as it took to get from one cool place to another. Despair seemed to radiate from every surface.

All around me on the sidewalk, people stood, smiling in the deluge. Prayer worked.

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Postscript: This was another exercise in Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

Rebirth of a Salesman

Pierce nodded as the telephone voice droned on and on in his right ear. It didn’t occur to him that the woman on the line could not see him nodding, and, in truth, it didn’t matter anyway. She hadn’t taken a breath for what seemed like an hour. By nodding, he knew that it would appear as if he was paying attention to the caller.

He was not. Today was the last day of Pierce’s career as a telephone salesman. Telemarketer was the term the firm preferred, he knew, but there was a powerful, negative association with the word in the minds of most decent people. He was a salesman, and it just so happened that his medium was the telephone.

Pierce could not remember when he began hating his job. It had been a gradual erosion of satisfaction, but the ruts in his psyche now were very deep. For the past month, he hadn’t made any sales, and increasingly his time was spent silently nodding as the people he had auto-dialed rambled on about...well, who knew?  

It was time, he decided, for a little dose of reality.

As he walked through the door for the last time, Pierce smiled. There was an entire world out there, and no call waiting.

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Postscript: What the hell was that? Excellent question. The text above is an attempt at Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

A Most Excellent Day!

From the diary of Elihu Jenkins, aide-de-camp to Vice President Schuyler Colfax.

April 27, 1870

Today has been a most excellent day! My esteem in the eyes of my august employer grows steadily, and I dare say that as my responsibilities multiply, my presence will shortly become more pronounced throughout the District....

...still, I dasn’t presume to engage in any kind of banter with Mr. Colfax. While he is a jovial man, and most kind, the vice president has made it clear that my place, while of value, is situated considerably below his own station. I am, at present, content with this situation....

...As I continued to fumble through the scattered correspondence  that lay siege to the right side of Mr. Colfax’s desk, a feeling of great anticipation came over me. Could it be? I thought to myself. Have my ears been bewitched by my overly-active imagination? I cast a sideways glance toward Mr. Colfax, who reclined slightly in his wooden desk chair.

The vice president regarded me with some amusement as he stroked his bushy beard with his fingers.

“You heard me well, Jenkins,” Colfax said. “I mean to press the issue with President Grant on the morrow, and you will be the bearer of my message. I have waited long enough for an appointment with the old general! I would have you diligently pursue this matter with his chief assistant to a satisfactory conclusion.”

Great Jehoshaphat! I shall visit the Presidential Palace, perhaps even to meet the Great Man himself!

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Postscript: What the hell was that? Excellent question. The text above is an attempt at Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog. It may also be read in tandem with The Adventures of Schuyler Colfax: Vice President!

Elusion

I can hear the music but I can’t tell where it’s coming from maybe a violin but the sound is faint and the quality is not good so I’m really not sure and I don’t have an ear for music anyway it’s hot in here I feel like my skin is burning even though it’s dark when I was a kid I felt like this that time I had chicken pox but you can’t get them again can you whatever happened to that purple bicycle I had haven’t thought about that bike in years garage sale probably handlebars had glow in the dark tape on them my hair would blow in the breeze pedaling full speed around the block as if monsters were chasing me and they might have been I had a lot of hair in those days everyone wore it long my ears didn’t feel sunshine for many a summer but it never prevented me from hearing all the music if I reach as far as I can really stretching my arms maybe I can touch the sound bring it closer and identify just what it is I’m hearing did I leave the radio on when I’m alone I do that sometimes because solitude is not my favorite state of being it’s funny even if I don’t want to talk to people which I don’t sometimes I still like to have people around which makes me the world’s worst party guest at times but that’s better than being a chatterbox who rambles on and on about politics god I hate to talk politics but I can tune out the voice noise and then I hear the music again no it’s not a violin but some other stringed instrument reminds me of that processed elevator music which I hate and which is now all I can think about my ears popped in the elevator we kept going up up up I was six and it kind of freaked me out you could feel the elevator cables jiggle how long does it take to get to the top floor anyway dad I want to get out now listen to the music son we’re almost there OK that wasn’t so bad and look at that view I can see for miles and the people down there are so small I’m on top of the world do we have to go already my son plays the violin maybe he’s practicing in his room but he never practices he could be really good if he would when I played the trumpet in junior high I practiced after school but I was never very good no rhythm at all is it brighter all of a sudden like the sun rising brighter now everything is red alarm clock it’s the alarm clock.

Slowly I sat up in bed, reached over and turned off the alarm. Had I dreamed? Fleeting images dripped slowly off my consciousness in the early moments of the day, just beyond my grasp. I hummed as I headed to the shower.

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Postscript: What the hell was that? Excellent question. The text above is an attempt at Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.

The Delicate Balance of Time and Fate

Or, Never on Wednesday


Gerry Anders hated everyone on Wednesday. Indeed, he was an equal opportunity hater. Barista. Bus driver. Secretary. Boss. Friend. Those who knew him best tried to avoid Gerry on Wednesdays; even a polite “hello” was not an option halfway through the week.

No one knew why Gerry became such an abhorrent troll once a week, and, truth be told, Gerry didn’t really understand it himself. It was as if all of his frustrations, fears, and biases - his dark clouds that he kept bottled up six days a week - automatically boiled over like clockwork. Perhaps it was internal pressure control, stroke avoidance.

“Idiots!” Tucked away in his work cubicle, Gerry cut loose on a contractor whose work was behind schedule. In most offices, heads would have turned at the harshness of the raised voice, but this was “Gerry being Gerry.” He was tolerated here, because the quality of his work was high, his value to the firm outweighing a single day of Hell each week. They gave him a wide berth, going so far as to post a lookout while he was in the breakroom to warn the innocent away.

Was it Fate that decreed he would meet the woman of his dreams on Wednesday? At the very least it could be chalked up to mundane bad timing; Sarah Jones rescheduled her Tuesday visit to Wednesday to accommodate an emergency trip to the dentist.

Sarah Jones did not exactly light up a room when she entered. No one would describe Sarah as anything like vivacious, bubbly, or even beautiful. What Sarah possessed was a deep well of kindness in her soul, the kind of inner beauty often ascribed to a saint. She believed in love at first sight, though she hadn’t seen it yet. She believed that everyone on Earth had a soul mate, if only they could find each other.

Sarah’s friend Jessica told her about a man with whom she worked. He had his rough spots, she told Sarah, but he was smart, efficient, and even kind of charming if you caught him on the right day.

“Just drop by the office and I’ll introduce you to Gerry,” Jessica pleaded with her friend. “I think you’d like him; he could be the one for you, Sarah. But come on Tuesday....”

In hindsight, Jessica regretted not emphasizing the day of the week more clearly to Sarah.

Sarah stood on the carpet just outside her friend’s cubicle for almost a full minute before her presence was felt. She smiled her kind, somewhat naive smile, exuding...well, goodness.

“Hey, Jess, I got held up yesterday, but I’m here now,” Sarah said. “Where’s this guy you want me to meet?”

Jessica’s eyes grew wide.

“Oh my God! Not today! This is not a good day to be here, Sarah!”

And then, like a cold shadow, Gerry stood behind Sarah.

“What the Hell is all this noise, Jessica! My cubicle is right there, and I can’t get anything done if you’re entertaining guests all morning!”

Maybe Sarah misread the fear and panic in Jessica’s eyes. Maybe she thought Gerry was kidding. She liked guys who were good kidders.

“Don’t worry about it, Gerry. She and I were just leaving....”

“No, we’re not!” Sarah said brightly. She turned to face the source of Jessica’s fear. “So you’re Gerry? I’ve heard a lot of nice things about you.”

For a moment, Gerry was silent. Did indecision slow his reply? Was there a glimmer of his six-day-a-week humanity, struggling to self-edit?


No.


“Listen, lady. I am up to my neck here, trying to keep this crappy place afloat, and the last thing I need is an overly-cheerful moron like you distracting me!”

What a bastard, Sarah thought, her smile flattening. Casting a hurt look at Jessica, she turned and strode toward the elevators. In a moment, with a ding, Sarah was gone. Silence smothered the maze of cubicles. Wednesday played out like it always did around Gerry Anders.

On Thursday, he cried.

###

Postscript: What the hell was that? Excellent question. The text above is an attempt at Flash Fiction, directed, in particular, to the Three Word Wednesday blog.