Confronted with the dim lighting, dark wood, and the tangy, sweet scents of barbequed meat, Kaylee stomped her right foot twice, then, lips pursed, exhaled. Better Ribs BBQ had no signage directing DoorDash drivers where to pick up orders and she dreaded asking.
“Can I help you?” said the young woman at the hostess station.
“I’m…here…for…Door…Dash.”
The hostess tilted her head. “You drive a car?”
If Kaylee could speak normally, she would––every day, every time, every word—but she couldn’t. Kaylee swallowed. “Yes…I’m…a…Door…Dash…driver.”
Two other orders sat in the car with her husband, David, waiting to be delivered. Saturday evenings they made good money, got plenty of work in a concentrated area, picked up several purchases in a row, and then dropped them off one, two, three at addresses near each other.…
...continue reading
Tick. Tick. Tick. Kenny watched as the clock on the wall of his seventh grade classroom moved closer and closer to twelve, it seemed to taunt him with its slow, unending ticks. His foot had begun to shake uncontrollably in anticipation, smacking against the tile flooring like the applause of a crowd. In about five minutes, when both hands of the clock met at the very top, the teacher would call out Kenny’s name and he would have to go give a speech at the front of the room. The speech was on the history of Chicago, he had always loved the city, but he found himself dreading it now as the countdown drew closer to zero. He hadn’t really prepared for the speech, it’s not that he didn’t have time, his teacher gave him almost a month, its just that it got lost in the daily tangle of life until suddenly it was speech day and he had nothing.…
...continue reading
Jamie was determined to hide his anger. Bullies turned his anger against him. They made him look helpless and dumb to everybody on the school bus. Worse: they turned his joy against him too. Like that time when word got around that he was into dinosaurs and everybody started calling him Jamiesarus. Or when everybody found out he still watched Mr. Rogers after school and all the bad things that happened after that. And if Jamie ever got mad and made a fist, or answered back to defend himself in any way, the whole bus would turn against him like they always did. They never turned on the bullies or the bad guys; everybody always turned on him and made him feel weak and crazy too since he never did anything against anybody, and mostly tried to make himself as small as possible and to stay out of everybody’s way, and to mind his own business.…
...continue reading
Fortunately, the alternator in my 1984 Dodge Ram is easy to access, otherwise I’d have to take it to a garage to get it replaced. I really can’t afford a car repair this month; I’ve barely worked. This weighs heavily on my mind as I roll over in bed and try to tune out the sound of my wife, who is sitting outside the bedroom window in the driveway of our Hollywood apartment smoking cigarettes and drinking cans of beer from our red and white Playmate. I hear the lid scrape open and shut each time she pulls out another can. I try to keep count, as if the roundtrips to the cooler were sheep, but I keep seeing my truck out on the street, the hood up, my head sunk in the engine bay as I struggle with the stubborn alternator bolt.…
...continue reading
The night before Christmas Eve. Bert watched the taillights of the Amtrak ‘Banker’ fade up the tracks toward Springfield. No one had gotten off in Hartford except him. It was clear and still and cold.
Union Station was deserted. He was disappointed Trudy hadn’t surprised him and walked eight blocks to meet the train. In a way he was glad, too – still to be alone, still moving toward her.
He carried his suitcase down Railroad Street to Asylum. A liquor store was open and he bought a pint of Jack Daniels. Tomorrow they would drive to Troy for Christmas. He was looking forward to seeing Mom and Pop Steiner.
After a block he opened the whiskey and took a drink.
Bert watched Trudy through the plate glass door descend the long flight of wooden stairs.…
...continue reading
She was Irish.
Well, she had acquired an Irish name—Miss Horan. A lovely lilt leavened her language. And her eyes were the startling grey-blue sometimes seen in that race.
Trouble was, she putting it all on. Miss Horan was actually Romanian, or some such. Old Doc, who was relating the story to me whilst barbering my hair, was not certain from whence the woman actually came. Since we both knew the truth of it, it went unsaid that on our island, people hail from everywhere and mix like mad. So it’s simple enough to up sticks and move yourself to a new spot where you can pretend to be someone else if you feel the need of it. For a time, then, it suited the woman who called herself Miss Horan to be Irish.…
...continue reading
“Katherine, I believe it’s important that we clarify your goals concerning these recurring dreams. Think of it as a springboard for the healing process, the starting point for our journey.”
Ten minutes into a fifty-minute hour, and Kat is already eyeing the door. Katherine Wyatt is not a person who seeks psychiatric help. Normal people don’t see shrinks, and normality is Kat’s calling card. Yet here she sits, chewing the end of her braid while Doctor Bramble smiles at her.
Fucksake, Kat, say something. The woman thinks you’re nuts. This is costing two hundred bucks an hour. Tell her about the damn dreams or leave.
Katherine drops her braid and forces herself to speak.
“Right, a starting point. Okay, Doctor Bramble. My life is completely ordinary.…
...continue reading