Flash Fiction: 72 Very Short Stories (21 page)

Every day both ways the commute seems to get longer, for all of us. We’re starting earlier and getting home later with, for me at least, less and less actual work time. This may be a reward or a punishment. But it doesn’t leave much margin for conversation. It’s getting so we’re mere shadows to each other at the crack of dawn and the tag end of dusk. This evening out of desperation I waved with two hands as if I had a message for him and he paused, just a big bulky shape in a fringed jacket with his hand on his door, and waited to hear me. “Home,” I said. “Home at last.” I could barely make him out but I believe he aimed his forefinger at me and lowered his thumb, like a cowboy. That was sweet. That was him all over. He knows me.

H
ERE’S
A
NOTHER
E
NDING

T
his time my story has a foregone conclusion.

It is true also.

After I tell the story, I say, “You could start a religion based on a story like that—couldn’t you?”

The story begins with my idea of a huge dog—a Doberman—which is to me an emblem—cruel, not lovable.

The dog is a household pet in a neighborhood such as mine, with houses with backyards which abut.

The huge dog is out and about when it should not be. It should never be.

When the dog returns to its owners, it is carrying in its mouth a dirty dead rabbit.

The dog’s owners exclaim—one of them does—“The neighbor’s rabbit! He’s killed it!” The dog’s owners conclude, “We must save our dog’s reputation at all costs.” They think, Our dog is in jeopardy.

The dog’s owners shampoo the dead rabbit and dry it with a hair dryer. At night, they sneak the rabbit back into their neighbor’s yard, into its cage.

The morning of the following day, the dog’s owners hear a shriek from the rabbit owners’ yard. They think, Oh! The dead rabbit has been discovered! They rush to see what’s what.

One of the rabbit’s owners—the father in the family—is holding the limp, white rabbit up in the air. He says to the dog’s owners, “We buried her two days ago!”

The dog’s owners explain nothing. They won’t, but not because they are ashamed of themselves.

There is another, more obvious reason.

108
J
OHN
S
TREET

T
he house was yellow. The days were long. The kitchen was crowded sometimes. Bill knew a way to tie up the paper bags of trash with string but Mark could never master it. This was an amusing issue on Wednesday nights. The refrigerator hummed softly. Mark went upstairs and found Jessica in their gray-carpeted room listening to Carole King. Her hair was wet and very dark. She said, “Did you eat the pie, Monkey?” Bill took a shower while Judy waited for him in the larger bedroom. Judy thought Bill took an unnaturally long time in the shower. Through the bathroom door she would shout ‘
William
,’ Jessica told Mark that Judy was jealous of hot running water. Mark typed a very flimsy poem in green ink. The poem implied that certain persons, like him, were able to see angels in the air, while others couldn’t. He moved some books from one pile to another. He doubted that he would ever read
The Death of Artemio Cruz
and wondered if he should feel depressed about this. When Lena Chen came over and cooked food in the wok, Mark always chopped the onions. “Monkey cries whenever Chen the Wren visits us,” said Jessica. She drew a cartoon of pigs wearing overalls eating ice cream sodas. In the basement room, Lawrence the gay lawyer spoke on the phone about Mozart as if no one else had ever heard of Mozart. In the kitchen Lawrence liked to use the phrase “quality cookware.” The night he announced that he was gay, everybody had to act serious. They were learning to live together. Bill pointed out to Mark that he often neglected to wash the bottoms of dishes and pans. Bill read a murder mystery soberly, missing no clues. The living room was surprisingly pleasant with a sand-colored sofa and Lawrence’s quality lamps. All of this, all of this, Jessica with her brown eyes so awake, all of this was significant, all of it vibrated just below consciousness with a strong significance. Or was it only life? Only life? Mark ate celery with cheese and then joined Jessica upstairs. She was joking on the phone, something about Simone de Beauvoir telling Jean-Paul to straighten up and fly right. Mark meant to read something about Vietnam but he was sleepy. Jessica mocked him for singing “Please Please Me” off-key but when she hugged him life was good. In the morning a pigeon patrolled the windowsill very near their sleeping heads. All significant. And God put it all in a cloth bag and swung it around and tossed it lightly into the river.

D
EPORTATION
A
T
B
REAKFAST

T
he signs on the windows lured me inside. For a dollar I could get two eggs, toast, and potatoes. The place looked better than most—family-run and clean. The signs were hand-lettered and neat. The paper had yellowed some, but the black letters remained bold. A green-and-white awning was perched over the door, where the name “Clara’s” was stenciled.

Inside, the place had an appealing and old-fashioned look. The air smelled fresh and homey, not greasy. The menu was printed on a chalkboard. It was short and to the point. It listed the kinds of toast you could choose from. One entry was erased from the middle of the list. By deduction, I figured it was rye. I didn’t want rye toast anyway.

Because I was alone, I sat at the counter, leaving the empty tables free for other customers that might come in. At the time, business was quiet. Only two tables were occupied; and I was alone at the counter. But it was still early—not yet seven-thirty.

Behind the counter was a short man with dark black hair, a mustache, and a youthful beard, one that never grew much past stubble. He was dressed immaculately, all in chef’s white—pants, shirt, and apron, but no hat. He had a thick accent. The name “Javier” was stitched on his shirt.

I ordered coffee, and asked for a minute to choose between the breakfast special for a dollar and the cheese omelette for $1.59. I selected the omelette.

The coffee was hot, strong, and fresh. I spread my newspaper on the counter and sipped at the mug as Javier went to the grill to cook my meal.

The eggs were spread out on the griddle, the bread plunged inside the toaster, when the authorities came in. They grabbed Javier quickly and without a word, forcing his hands behind his back. He, too, said nothing. He did not resist, and they shoved him out the door and into their waiting car.

On the grill, my eggs bubbled. I looked around for another employee—maybe out back somewhere, or in the washroom. I leaned over the counter and called for someone. No one answered. I looked behind me toward the tables. Two elderly men sat at one; two elderly women at the other. The two women were talking. The men were reading the paper. They seemed not to have noticed Javier’s exit.

I could smell my eggs starting to burn. I wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. I thought about Javier and stared at my eggs. After some hesitation, I got up from my red swivel stool and went behind the counter. I grabbed a spare apron, then picked up the spatula and turned my eggs. My toast had popped up, but it was not browned, so I put it down again. While I was cooking, the two elderly women came to the counter and asked to pay. I asked what they had had. They seemed surprised that I didn’t remember. I checked the prices on the chalkboard and rang up their order. They paid slowly, fishing through large purses, and went out, leaving me a dollar tip. I took my eggs off the grill and slid them onto a clean plate. My toast had come up. I buttered it and put it on my plate beside my eggs. I put the plate at my spot at the counter, right next to my newspaper.

As I began to come back from behind the counter to my stool, six new customers came through the door. “Can we pull some tables together?” they asked. “Were all one party.” I told them yes. Then they ordered six coffees, two decaffeinated.

I thought of telling them I didn’t work there. But perhaps they were hungry. I poured their coffee. Their order was simple: six breakfast specials, all with scrambled eggs and wheat toast. I got busy at the grill.

Then the elderly men came to pay. More new customers began arriving. By eight-thirty, I had my hands full. With this kind of business, I couldn’t understand why Javier hadn’t hired a waitress. Maybe I’d take out a help-wanted ad in the paper tomorrow. I had never been in the restaurant business. There was no way I could run this place alone.

A
V
ERY
S
HORT
S
TORY

O
ne hot evening in Padua they carried him up onto the roof and he could look out over the top of the town. There were chimney swifts in the sky. After a while it got dark and the searchlights came out. The others went down and took the bottles with them. He and Luz could hear them below on the balcony. Luz sat on the bed. She was cool and fresh in the hot night.

Luz stayed on night duty for three months. They were glad to let her. When they operated on him she prepared him for the operating table; and they had a joke about friend or enema. He went under the anæsthetic holding tight on to himself so he would not blab about anything during the silly, talky time. After he got on crutches he used to take the temperatures so Luz would not have to get up from the bed. There were only a few patients, and they all knew about it. They all liked Luz. As he walked back along the halls he thought of Luz in his bed.