From
the Desk of the an Author;
Hello
and welcome to another exciting issue of Larks Fiction Magazine.
Today we are featuring prose of the everyday world in literary
fiction.
As
of now we are changing our guidelines for publication. We are
currently trying to allow content to be published on our site as well
as in the emagazine editions. Due to copyright concerns we cannot
accept any work that is not acceptable for resell.
This
is not because we are evil greedy publishers but because we do not
want to accidentally sell work we do not have rights to. If we are
not allowed to sell your work then we cannot include it in the
emagazine. Which in turn creates too much time researching which
rights we have and do not have.
So
from today on we will only be considering that can be sold. Further
more we will consider any work submitted to us as appropriate for
resell.
All
the best,
Jessica
Rowse
LFM
Editor
Juan
Valdez Sings the Blues
by
Jesse Kirkpatrick
“Misty
Mountain Hop” came on. I used to like that song, before I started
working here. The CD changer in the back cycled through a program
that repeated every four hours, meaning I heard Mr. Plant yearn to go
“over the hills” about two and a half times a day. I’d been
there for five weeks, with about three days off a week. This is
repetition 47, since I was sick last Tuesday.
Right
after I came in that morning, I’d been going at the newspaper
bundles (delivered late) with an X-ACTO knife when someone walked by
the window, and my heart crawled up in my throat. Was that Audrey?
I thought. Nah, couldn’t be. You’re just tired, that’s all.
She probably isn’t even in this state.
I’ll
admit, it wasn’t the first time. One of the actors in our Barista
Basics! video looked like her, except with red curls instead of
straight black strands. I played our last conversation in my mind,
over and over, for the first few weeks post-breakup, hoping that,
like in one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books, I could
go back and not pick the “You are eaten by robots” ending. It
almost got me in trouble with Reggie, the manager, not a day after I
was hired. After I’d faked memorizing our operations handbook, we
were doing a store overview when I zoned out.
And
now, here I was, zoning out again. I brought myself back and checked
my watch. Reggie should’ve arrived. He had a low tolerance for BS
but he was decent, with no obvious craziness. It had become clear
from day two that he was a by-the-book kind of guy. He was glad I
could at least pretend to be responsible.
Me?
I was desperate for anything, having been smacked with the reality
that my degree wasn’t getting me where I wanted to go. Did I want
to stay here for the long-term? Not as just a coffee monkey.
Reggie
had mumbled something about needing an assistant manager since he'd
be overseeing two stores soon. I was the only one in the running. Not
that there was much competition. Everyone else was swiping tubs of
caramel, hiding 6-packs in the back of the fridge, or some other kind
of unreliability. Or Bobbert, who is his own category.
I
glanced over at the pastry case. In another 10 minutes, we’d change
over to the evening layout: the doughnuts, Rice Krispies, and the
petrified breakfast sandwiches got shuffled into the back. I quickly
fixed the only drink I hadn’t gotten tired of yet (iced tea with
black cherry syrup) and ducked into the back room.
*
* *
As
soon as I fell asleep, the sun came back up, which meant I had to be
in the same old place, doing the same old things. I had the “bitch
shift”: eight to eight. No satisfaction in opening or closing, a
lunch break, one snack break, and a guarantee of being hassled
nonstop.
I
scanned the storefront, policy having become instinct. We were
running low on napkins, someone had spilled a mocha on the floor, and
today’s shipment needed to be unpacked. I turned to go into the
back of the store, and then the little shift leader in my head ran
away screaming.
As
the door shut behind Audrey, I kept staring to make sure I hadn’t
died and gone to retail Hell. She had taken her place in line, just
three customers insulating me from the inevitable. She hadn’t
changed visibly. Same white shirt with the skull and roses, same long
black hair, same plaid skirt. Two customers left. My mouth operated
independently of my brain and the suit nodded, so the autopilot
must’ve gotten it right.
What
the hell was she doing here? Maybe she won’t recognize you,
I thought. Yeah, right. One customer left. Bobbert was
cleaning and Tina’s till had been closed out, so I was stranded.
Audrey
came up, her platforms thudding on the floor tiles. I wondered how
quickly I could fake my own death. She just stood there silently,
waiting for the world to come to her.
“Welcome-to-Misty-Mountain-Coffee-how-can-I-help-you-today?”
Good,
the words were out there. After the money changed hands, I’d be
home free.
Silence.
I knew I couldn’t stare at the touch screen forever. I met her
eyes, and I swear I saw them focus on something inside of me.
“Large,
iced skim mocha, no whipped cream.”
A
chill went down my spine. I had forgotten how much she could pack
into a single word.
“Is
there a problem?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
I
whirled to the right and called the drink. Bobbert gave me a short
nod and started prepping it.
“That’ll
be $3.45.”
“I’m
sorry. I didn’t hear that, Paul.”
Game
over.
“$3.45.”
“Thank
you.”
I
put out my hand to take the money, and she bypassed it entirely,
slamming the three bills and change on the counter. I scooped it up
and dropped it in the drawer, and she’d moved on down to the drink
counter. She tapped out a rhythm on the counter until the cup arrived
in front of her. Audrey nested at one of the corner tables, picking
up a paper someone had left there. Her eyes met mine, and there was
that smile.
“Hey,
buddy, you with us?”
Another
customer, a tall guy in a pin-striped suit, had come up to the
register. To his credit, he looked concerned.
“Of
course. What’ll it be?”
“Huh?”
“I
said, what would you like?”
“Oh,
a large melon green iced tea, light on the ice.”
“Is
that all?”
“Yeah. You sure you’re okay?”
“Sir, that’s
none of your business. $2.73.”
The
guy blinked but said nothing.
“Bobbert,
calling.”
Bobbert
was staring off into space.
“Calling!”
He
snapped to and stifled a yawn.
I
called the guy’s order. There wasn’t much of a line. As I went
back to refill the ice water pitcher (our most popular drink, by
far), I whispered to Bobbert, “Hey, can you solo it?”
“It’s
almost three, dude. The after-school rush hits soon.”
“Just
for a minute. I need a break.”
“Okay.
Don’t go AWOL, man.”
I
went through the double doors, plunked down in the chair, and put my
head down on the desk, next to a policy binder.
Relax,
I thought. She can’t follow you home or anything. Probably just
in town and wanted a drink. By the time you pull yourself together,
she’ll be out of the store. I tried to look out the tiny
plastic windows without anyone noticing. Sure enough, there was a
line forming. Bobbert was holding his own, but I couldn’t see
around to the end of it.
I
slammed my fist on the table, hard enough to make the phone jump.
Bobbert
swung the door in just then. “Paul, I need you out—holy shit,
dude, you okay?”
I
shrugged, got up, and headed out to face the crowd. They didn’t
seem as pissed as I would’ve expected, but the bar was a mess. The
whipped cream was out, two of the blenders were dirty, and a roll of
receipts stretched out of the register. No Audrey. Just as well.
“Paul,
calling.”
“Right.”
“I
need one double mocha shake, extra large; a berry iced tea, no sugar;
a single espresso for here; a banana cake; and a small, light
dreamsicle shake.”
“What,
did you give me everyone’s order at once?”
“Nope.
That’s just the first one.”
I
shook my head and began prepping the shake.
“Boo!”
I
jumped, dropping the whipped cream. The canister hit the floor
trigger-first, coating the bottom edge of the cabinet. I cursed.
It
was Audrey, leaning on the edge of the counter, grinning.
“Why’d
you do that?” I asked.
“To
scare you.”
“And,
again, I ask why,” I muttered, as I placed the can back up on the
counter and grabbed the roll of paper towels. Bobbert and the rest of
the line hadn’t noticed my fumble, as far as I could tell. I felt
her eyes watching me wipe the goo off the tiles.
“What…why
are you here?” I asked.
She
stirred her mocha. “I’m a customer, Paul.”
“I
know that.”
“Still
haven’t done anything useful, I see.”
“That’s
not fair.”
“Neither
were you,” she shot back, grin completely gone. “This tastes a
little sour. You used fresh milk, right?”
Before
I could answer, she added, “Make it again.”
“What?
You already drank a quarter of—”
“The
customer’s always right, Paul. Here.”
She
uncurled her hand, leaving the cup on the counter. “I want a
replacement. Are you okay, Paul? You seem stressed. Still living at
home? How’s the job search? Oh, was this all you could get?”
“I’m
not living at home.”
I
balled up the paper towels and hurled them into the trash can.
“Paul,
you can’t be angry with me.”
“Why
not?”
“Because
you dumped me. It was your decision.”
“Which
you agreed to,” I said.
She
laughed.
I
walked over to Bobbert, feeling her watching me. “Let’s switch,
dude.”
“But
you don’t have a till assigned.”
“Bobbert,
I ask very little. Just this once. Please.”
He
nodded and took his position at the bar. The clock read 3:13 p.m.
Another four hours and change to go. Her eyes followed me as I
shuffled over to the register.
“Large,
iced skim mocha, no whip,” I said.
“Again?”
“Yes.
Again.”
I
rang up the next two customers before I dared look over. She was
still there, nails drumming out a beat on the polished counter.
“Large,
iced skim mocha, no whip!” said Bobbert, and he slid the cup down
the counter.
I
heard Audrey’s voice but not her words.
“I
made sure that was fresh, going right by the book. Here, I’ll—”
Bobbert cracked open the beverage guide and was about to put it down
in front of her, when she interrupted:
“I
trust you. I just want him to make it.”
“No,”
I said.
She
raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“Because
you’ve had two now, both made by the book. So it’s the espresso
or the syrup, both of which are close to full. I can’t dump those
out to please one person. Sorry.”
I
turned away so quickly that I got a crick in my neck. I heard her
walk away, her soles grinding wasted espresso beans into the tile.
She’d nested in the corner again.
“Who
was that?” whispered Bobbert.
“No
one.”
“She’s
cute.”
“Bobbert,
leave it be. Trust me.”
“Just
sayin’ she’s cute,” he mumbled.
*
* *
I
was enjoying my Gameboy and my raspberry shake when Bobbert began
rifling through the shelves.
“We
have any more peppermint?”
“Nope,”
I said. “It’s on the refill order and will be here tomorrow.”
“Not
even in the back?”
“I
checked yesterday.”
Still
determined, Bobbert started shuffling boxes on the highest shelf.
“Hey,
Paul, what happened?”
“With
what?”
“This
girl. What’d you do to piss her off?”
“Leave
it, Bobbert.”
“Dude,
it’ll be good for you. Get it off your chest.”
I
hit 'save' and switched off the game.
“Well,
I met her through a friend of mine who was an orientation leader back
at school. We kept running into each other, and eventually, she
invited herself over to watch movies.”
“You
didn’t ask her out?”
“Not
at first. But I didn’t object. It was cool for about a year. We got
pretty close. But then we didn’t go out of the way for each other
as much.”
“Things
always settle down some, man.”
“I
know, but this was different. We both took it for granted and let
some other issues just…sit there.”
“So
you had a fight?”
“Yeah.
I started it. Convinced myself that it would be better for both of us
to get out.”
“And
she didn’t agree?”
I
took a deep breath. “Not at first. Turned out I was one of the few
good things in her life, the way she described it.”
“So
she was high maintenance?”
“No,
that’s the thing. She was really sweet and smart, the exact
opposite of what happened the other day. Total one-eighty.”
“Damn,
dude. And now she shows up here.”
“Yeah.”
“You
still into her?” He’d pulled the stool up next to me.
“That’s
the million dollar question, isn’t it? Maybe. If she forgave me. I
dunno.”
“Rough,
dude. So what’re you gonna do?”
“I
have no idea. If she doesn’t come back, I don’t have to do
anything, really.”
Bobbert
furrowed his brow.
“I
can hear the gears turning,” I said. “Spill it.”
“Well
man, it’s like… there’s some things you gotta do for you, not
for them, y'know?”
“You
mean closure,” I said.
“Exactly,
man. Get your ducks in order.”
I
smiled, despite what was waiting on the other side of the scuffed
door.
“I
thought it was 'your house in order'.”
Bobbert
made a dismissive gesture.
“Ducks,
house, whatever. You know what I meant.”
We
let that sit there for a bit.
“Bobbert,
right now I want to finish my shake, clock out, and go home. Thanks
for listening.”
“Anytime,
man.”
*
* *
That
Wednesday, I was scheduled for the closing shift. Reggie had said
he’d stop for some paperwork, and then do a tea tasting with me. I
was almost looking forward to it. I wanted to see if I could learn
the difference between a “rich mouth feel” and “subtle citrus
notes” or if managers were given new taste buds when they were
promoted.
As
I came in, the walkways and counters were clean and the newspaper
stacks neat. There were only a few patrons sipping on overpriced
drinks. A slow reggae beat flowed out of our sound system, and as the
back of the store came into view, I saw that today’s shipment had
been put away, leaving only folded cardboard boxes up against the
wall. I let myself smile, looking forward to an easy afternoon
shooting the breeze with Bobbert.
I
heard a soft cough to my left. I didn’t have to look over. How long
had she been here?
“Hi,
Paul.”
I
forced myself to walk faster, to the safety of the back room.
*
* *
I
was just getting into a rhythm, not thinking about Audrey, when
Reggie came in. He nodded as he passed, still talking on his phone.
“I understand. And the sign is out front, along with the forms on
the table, right as customers walk in. I can’t make them fill it
out.”
He
was silenced by the double doors. I poured more beans into the
espresso machine. I figured he was talking to Owen, the district
manager. Those are never happy conversations for him. He poked his
head back out, and I heard his phone flip shut.
"Mr.
Paul, we’ll be doing the tea tasting at two p.m. sharp today. We’ll
try three different blends—”
“Excuse
me, are you the manager?” Audrey was in front of the register, arms
crossed.
“Yes,
I am. What can I help you with?”
“I
want to complain about one of your staff.”
Reggie
raised an eyebrow. “Can you describe them?”
She
aimed a black fingernail at me. “He refused to remake my drink
yesterday and was… insulting.”
“You
weren’t even here yesterday!” I blurted.
“Are
you sure? Do you remember every single person who came in and out of
the store yesterday?”
“Well,
no, but—”
“Paul,
is this true?” Reggie asked.
“I
try to make every drink as best I can. And if I was insulting,
it wasn’t intentional.”
“That’s
not an apology,” Audrey said.
“I’ll
deal with it, miss. I’m sorry you had a bad experience at our
store.”
He
ducked under the register and rifled through a drawer. He grabbed a
piece of paper and held it out for Audrey to take. It was the
“bastard coupon,” good for one of anything in the store, no
expiration date.
“I
hope you’ll come back soon.”
She
smiled at both of us. “I’ll be sure to.” She turned on her heel
and headed for the door. Reggie nodded toward the back room and I
followed.
“Do
you know her?”
I
nodded. He almost looked sympathetic.
“Paul,
you can’t bring your personal life in here. I have no problem with
everyone socializing off the clock and joking around—some—but any
conflicts you have, keep them outside.”
“Reggie,
you know me. I don’t lose it at customers.”
“Regardless,
she must’ve had some reason to complain.”
“Yeah, she did.”
Reggie
inhaled and exhaled calmly.
“But
it has nothing to do with this place.”
He
reached up and grabbed a thin, green binder. “Now then, we’ll be
brewing some red tea, from—”
“So,
what happens? Do I get a write-up? A demerit?”
“Not
this time, I trust you to handle it. But it can’t happen again.”
*
* *
I
was on break, reading Pop Sci when Bobbert came in.
“Hey,
dude,” he said.
“Hey.”
“How’s
it going?”
I
gave him a thumb’s down and kept reading.
“I’m
sorry.” He clocked in and rescued a breakfast burrito from the
fridge. “Oh, guess who I saw today?”
“No
clue.”
“Your
ex, just before I opened.”
“Huh?
Where?”
“Down
the street. She was unlocking Kitsch Korner as I walked by.”
“Explains
a lot. She didn’t see you?”
Bobbert
grinned. “I’m like James Bond, man.”
*
* *
I
went home, cracked a beer, and began rummaging through my closet.
Audrey had given me a teddy bear once. I still had it, since tossing
him out would be like blaming him. After all, the bear hadn’t done
anything wrong. I found him the way he’d always been, wearing a
Hawaiian shirt, black jeans with a chain, and soccer cleats. I
plunked him in my guest chair and sat on the couch.
“What
do you think about all this?”
His
eyes wouldn’t quite look into mine.
“Don’t
give me that look. You know exactly what’s wrong. I can’t ignore
her, I can’t skip work–so, what do I do?”
*
* *
She
was cleaning off a pottery table, just inside. I cleared my throat.
She looked up, letting my appearance sink in.
“Back
for more?” The smile returned.
“We
need to talk.”
She
went back to placing the pottery on the table. “No, we don’t."
“Wrong.
You don’t. I do."
She
put down a vase and crossed her arms.
“This
shit has to stop. You come in every other day to where I work, and
even though I hate the job, that’s not the point. You’re upset
about everything you didn’t say a few months ago, and it’s
twisted and exaggerated because you didn’t say it back then. It’s
eating at you and now you’re making it eat at me. I refuse.”
An
old lady who’d been browsing behind Audrey was glaring at me. The
guy next to her continued staring at the same page of a sketchbook.
“Paul,
I—”
“I’m
not finished. When I’m done you can go ahead and call me on my
shit, say I’m hopeless, or I’m a coward, or that I cheated on you
with one of my friends, which I didn’t. Is any of this healthy? The
sniping back and forth? How much time did you spend plotting what
you’d do in my store?”
She
just stood there, holding a vase in one hand, cloth in the other,
stiff and unreadable.
“I’m
sorry that something we both wanted to work didn’t.” I said. “I’m
not over it and you’re clearly not either. Otherwise, I wouldn’t
be your lunch-break entertainment. But what’s going on now is not
healthy.”
I
felt all of the blood rush to my face, and by the end I was breathing
heavily. She put down the vase. The smile was nowhere to be seen.
“You
cared this much?”
“I
cared, just not the way you wanted.”
She
nodded. “What now?”
We
had a small crowd around us. No one looked at me, though.
“Now?”
I said. “I have to get back to work before Reggie kills me.”
*
* *
I
got back to Misty Mountain Coffee, wondering if I’d really just
pulled that. As soon as I came out of the storage room in uniform,
Reggie was waiting. He put his arm around my back and said, “Mr.
Paul, step into my office.”
Before
the door swung shut, he started in. “You’re consistently late.
You haven’t been able to manage a high volume of customers
reliably. You don’t follow policy and you haven’t set an example
for the other baristas. Paul, I can’t give you the assistant
manager position. Not until you start taking things seriously. There
is no way it'd get past Owen.”
That
settled it. I saw it all stretched out before me. Irregular schedule,
so good-bye to a social life. Just making enough to hang on to my
crappy little apartment, never really going anywhere, never really
winning or losing.
“Then
I’ll start taking this job seriously right now.”
“Good
to hear it. Owen is coming by tomorrow and—”
“I
won’t be here. I’m done. I quit.”
That
got his attention. And then “Misty Mountain Hop” came on.
“Okay,
so you’re giving me two weeks’ notice. Wednesday after next, I’ll
hand you your last pay stub and—”
“No.
I’m gone. Right now.” I stood up and began to undo my apron.
“That’s
against company policy. You consented to follow it when you signed
your contract.”
I
looked him right in the eye. I never realized how short he was.
“Reggie, some things are more important than the company.”
I
threw the apron behind me and walked through the double doors.
Bobbert
was leaning up against the espresso machine, grinning.
"Ship’s
all yours,” I said. “You have my cell, right?”
Bobbert
nodded. “Good luck, man.”
I
got in my car and headed off to drink with an old buddy. I had
three-and-a-half weeks before I needed to worry about bills. I slept
for about ten hours, and then I called Audrey.
“Hello?”
“Hey,
it’s me.”
“I’m
surprised you kept this number,” she said.
“I
keep forgetting to erase it.”
“So
what happened the other day? Did your boss ride you for it?”
“Actually,
I’m done there.”
She
laughed quickly. “Nice.”
“Yeah,”
I said.
“So
this was just a casual call? To inform me that you’re a bum?”
“No.”
“Then,
why call?”
“Audrey, you know that Thai place a block down from
Misty Mountain Coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“Want
to go there tomorrow night?”
I
heard nothing but the fridge churning in my apartment.
“Paul,
did you just ask me out?”
“Yes
and no. I want to see this through to the end. I want to tie things
up, one way or the other.”
“You
know, you’re really good at this.”
“Good
at what?”
“Leaving
me speechless.”
I
laughed. “So that’s a yes?”
“You’re
crazy.”
“I
know.”
She
let out a small breath. “Yes.”
*
* *
About
the Author;
Jesse Kirkpatrick is a writer with longstanding
ties to the Washington, D.C.-Chesapeake Bay area. He frequents local
writer’s groups and is a recent graduate of St. Mary’s College of
Maryland, where he earned his B.A. In English.
He
is currently writing his first novel.
A
Gift from Hans
by
Clive Gill
At
La Mirage Terrace apartments in San Diego, Bird of Paradise flowers
proudly displayed their brilliant orange and purplish-blue colors
above their tall, evergreen leaves. Purple leaf plum, fir and palm
trees guarded a trimly cut lawn in front of the two story building
located on a quiet street.
Second
floor entrances to Manny and Joe’s apartments faced each other. On
a warm, sunny winter morning in 1987, they met on the stairs located
on the outside of the apartment building, when Manny came home during
a break from his job as a school bus driver.
Joe
asked, “How you doing?”
“Okay.
You just heading to class now?”
“Yup.
I couldn’t get any earlier classes that would meet the
requirements.”
“Uh
huh. Is one of the requirements you have to be crazy to study
psychology?” Manny smirked.
“Ha,
ha…good one,” Joe responded with a wide grin. “Hey Manny, you
sold any of your Guatemala blankets this year?”
“Sure
have. Some of the bus drivers bought them. You need one?”
“I’m
fine for now. Are the kids on your bus still giving you a hard time?”
Manny
rubbed his forehead. “Every day. Either the kids or the parents
stress me out.”
“I
wouldn’t want your job. Say Manny, can you do me a big favor?”
“What?”
short, stocky Manny asked abruptly.
“When
my newspaper is delivered in the morning, will you let me read it
first? I’ll be happy to pass it on to you.”
Manny
nodded then tried to hitch up his pants that hung low on his hips,
but failed because his stomach hung over his pants like a sack of
corn meal.
“Thanks,
Manny. See ya.”
Manny
turned, watching Joe’s tall, slim body and thick, black hair as he
ran down the stairs. Manny smiled, extending his fat face, as he
muttered, “I’ll read it first.” He lumbered up to his apartment
and opened the door. Hans, his black dachshund, barked while he
playfully ran around Manny.
A
week later Joe saw Manny, puffing like a walrus, as he walked up the
outside stairs.
“Hey,
Manny,” he said looking into Manny’s deep-set, black eyes and
observing how Manny habitually squeezed his eyes and frowned. Manny’s
large head sat firmly on his short neck between broad shoulders.
“Hey,
Joe.”
“How
you doing, Manny?”
“Fine.”
“Ever
see your ex-wife?”
“Not
if I can help it. How’s that cute girlfriend of yours doing?”
“She’s
starting to bug me,” Joe answered.
“Oh,
yeah?”
Joe
said, “Yeah. We’ve been dating since high school. Maybe it’s
time for a change.”
“Maybe
so. What’s her major? I forgot.”
“Art.”
Manny
said, “Art, huh? Artists can be strange.”
“That’s
the truth.”
“I
saw a guy on T.V. called Jackson Pollock. He throws cans of paint on
a huge canvas.”
“Is
that right?” Joe asked.
“Yeah.
And this other artist, I can’t remember his name; he attaches a
toilet seat to a wall. That’s a crappy thing to call art.”
Joe’s
belly jerked as he laughed. “Ha, ha, ha. Yeah, it is.”
“Bunch
of weirdoes.”
“Guess
so. Just a reminder, Manny, to please let me read my newspaper
first.”
“Okay,”
Manny answered as he stared at Joe’s sparse beard and hazel eyes.
“Thanks.
Gotta go…I’m late for class.”
Joe
ran to his old, black Renault parked in back of the building, not
stopping to smell the pungent sweetness of white jasmine flowers or
watch a spectacular territorial fight between two exotically colored
male humming birds.
Manny’s
lips curled into a grin. He thought, Joe’s
paper is mine first.
Manny
opened his apartment door and greeted an excited Hans, then took his
pet to the front lawn. Hans sniffed, searching for other dogs’
scents. Now he strained as he dropped his feces on the grass. Manny
ignored Hans’s droppings and returned to his apartment to eat and
nap before returning to work.
On
Sunday afternoon, Manny listened to the Boston Pops conducted by
Arthur Fiedler, with the volume so high that Joe felt vibrations
resound in his apartment. Joe mumbled, “There he goes again. Every
week… He’s a pain in the butt.” Joe left his apartment to study
at the college library.
For
three months, Joe had not seen his newspaper until after Manny had
read it, then put it on Joe’s “Welcome” mat. When Joe opened
the newspaper, he saw spotted remnants of Manny’s breakfast which
sometimes caused pages to stick together.
On
a Friday night, when Joe was driving home alone, he said aloud, “I’m
fed up with Manny. I’ll get him.” Early the next morning the fog
lay low and while Manny slept, Joe waited for the newspaper boy
riding his bicycle. As the paper landed on the sidewalk, Joe opened
the front door and ran down the stairs. Cautiously, he removed the
newspaper from its plastic wrapping and opened it. With two small
pieces of cardboard, he scooped some of Han’s soft feces from the
previous evening, into the middle of the newspaper. Joe attached a
Post-it note above the excrement. He carefully folded the paper,
returned it to its plastic protective cover, sealed the top with
brown masking tape and left it on the sidewalk. He returned to his
apartment unobserved by Manny, his eyes sparkling as he smiled
broadly.
Manny
awoke feeling hungry. He cooked three slices of bacon, a large
sausage, hash browns, garlic and onions and a mushroom omelet until
they were almost ready. He started to brew his favorite coffee, then
went outside with Hans to get Joe’s newspaper and to allow Hans to
pee against a tree. Manny said to himself, Paper
feels heavier than usual. Probably got lots of advertisement pages
today. I guess the delivery boy taped the cover ‘cause of the dew.
Returning
to enticing breakfast odors in his apartment, Manny toasted an
English muffin then finished frying his food. He brought his
breakfast and Joe’s newspaper to the kitchen table. Noticing a bad
odor not overpowered by the breakfast, he turned to Hans who was
waiting for his bacon treat. “Did you fart? C’mon, if you’ve
got to let go, do it far away from me!” Hans wiggled his tail.
Manny
blew his nose into a tissue, sounding like a foghorn. He jammed a
large piece of buttered English muffin and half the sausage into his
mouth. Chewing fast, he removed the masking tape, took the newspaper
out of the plastic and opened it. He noticed a lump in the middle of
the paper at the sports section. On opening it, his eyes bulged
while focused on the spread-flattened feces. He roared, “What the…?
How the hell did this get here? Damn that runt of a newspaper boy!”
Now
he noticed the canary-yellow Post-it note on which was neatly
written, “A gift from Hans.”
His
ears grew hot and red as a lobster. He remained speechless for five
seconds as his normally reddish cheeks turned white. He spat his
greasy food over the paper and yelled, “Ahhhhhh!” Now he
scrunched the newspaper.
“Oh,
shit!” he screamed. His stress caused blurry vision to grow in his
left eye and led to a migraine causing vertigo, nausea and vomiting.
He stayed at home for two days in darkened rooms.
For
the remaining three years that Manny and Joe were neighbors, they
never discussed the “gift from Hans.” Manny allowed Joe to get
his newspaper first which was passed on to Manny after Joe read it.
Manny always picked up Hans’s feces from the front lawn and put it
into a black plastic doggy bag.
Manny
continued to play along with Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops, but
at a much quieter tone, while Joe remained comfortably in his
apartment on Sunday afternoons.
#
About
the Author;
Clive
Gill’s short stories have appeared in Pens on Fire
(pensonfire.com),
6
Tales, and in Shark Reef (sharkreef.org).
His has worked as a salesperson, mediator, farm hand, information
technology manager and school bus driver.
Born
in Zimbabwe, he has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North
America and Europe. He received a degree in Economics from University
of California, Los Angeles and lives in San Diego.
Thank you for joining us with this issue of Larks Fiction Magazine! Make sure to join us next week and as always see our back issues! Also KITTENS!
