A Story About Linda

Watch how slowly Linda eats, like each bite of food has said something bad about her children. Lunch starts at noon and she’s in the cafeteria at 12:03. 12:04 if the elevator is slow, or someone tries to stop her to talk. There is only one thing that passes her standards: the cobb salad with raspberry vinaigrette (instead of ranch) and ham on the side. Linda has few pleasures in life and this isn’t one.

Miguel stares, a mixture of attraction and disgust visible on his face. He wouldn’t use the word “pretty” to describe Linda, but Miguel doesn’t do a lot of describing. Mostly, he does a lot of chopping. The Cobb Salad comes pre-bagged, but a few other dishes require vague culinary skills. “Do you think that woman is Latino?” Miguel asks Ken.

Ken thinks and then says “I don’t know… Are you Latino?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. What does that cover exactly?”

“She might be mixed.”

“We’re all mixed, aren’t we?”

A couple chatty middle managers plop trays on the counter, each with the same thing - a hot dog, macaroni and cheese, chips and a diet coke.

“Together or separate?” Ken intones.

“Together,” says the one in the sky blue polo. “I got this.”

“Thanks,” says the one in the salmon polo.

“That’ll be $16.85.”

When they leave, Miguel starts again. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About that woman.”

“I don’t know if we're allowed to talk about this.”

A Story About Wild Hares

She told the group it was like wiping her ass with the fluffiest rabbit. No one cared to know the intricacies of Karen’s bowl movements, but she couldn’t resist. After two days in the wild she had transformed into a new woman, with a new body – leaner, tougher. She handed Martin back his toilet paper and took a seat by the burgeoning fire. Garrison poked at the homemade fire-starter with a stick, and changed the subject.

-You made all these?

Karen flashed a delicious grin.

-And the foil packets, she sang.

How long had she been out of her element? Since girl scouts? She had been a vestigial limb of her group. No one knew why she was there, but there was no reason to get rid of her unless she caused problems. So Karen had spent the last 18 months trying not cause any problems. When Jessi and Jona suggested they all go camping, she agreed to it, just like everyone else. She made preparations without even thinking, from a childhood spent in state parks. The panic that came over everyone when they realized how difficult it might be to cook without a stove and a microwave, Karen stepped in with her camp knife, portable cutting board. When two of the boys only brought blankets she fastened a place for them to sleep out of her extra tarp. She had saved the day and now she could say whatever the fuck she wanted.

A Story about Home

Deborah K locked herself in the bathroom. The sun had not yet cleared the hedges. Her children still slept on their beds. Pancake mix sat, anxious, on the counter. It had been months since she last cried. Today, like always, she simply stared at herself in the mirror. This is your face, she told herself. Sometimes she would smoosh her cheeks with her fingers, but today she didn’t have the energy.

The architect had located the guest bathroom in the heart of the house, with not even a window for light. It could be the quietist, safest place in any storm. The architect had lost his family in a Hurricane while on vacation as a young boy. If this had shaped the events of his life or the construction of his house design, he did not mention it to anyone.

The architect felt foolish for knocking on the door. He knew it was not usual to contact the owners of the house after sale, but he had taken to driving around the neighborhood in the early hours. When he saw the light on in the kitchen it felt cosmic. His hands willed themselves to pull the car over and kill the engine. His feet brought him to the door and his arm knocked his knuckles against the door.

Deborah K squealed. What was that? And then another knock on the door.

A Story about Russian Nesting Dolls

Mark came in all sweaty, like he’d been working in the yard. He dug through the drawers in the guest room and pulled apart the closet in the den. Then he went into the garage, opening up boxes and dumping the contents on the ground. The whole time he mutters under his breath in a way no one could hear. Then just as quickly he exits out the backdoor and across the neighbor’s yard to the trail that shortcuts to high school.

Maggie tells all this to her sister, Lottie, two days later. None of explains why Maggie has a black eye or where she got that cat, but perhaps she hasn’t got there yet. Lottie hands her sister a mason jar with ice water to calm her nerves and help her get the words. Before Maggie can continue, there’s a knock at the door. A man in a wool suit asks for Maggie, but when Lottie goes back in the kitchen, the chair where Lottie was sitting holds only a timid cat.

At least this is the story, Lottie told the undercover cop, when he came to her door. He wrote each word down carefully. Recently he had come under scrutiny from an internal investigation, which had more to do with incompetency rather than unscrupulous activity. For the past few weeks he tried to double check everything. Before he left the house his wife made sure that his tie was straight, his nails were trim, and his hair parted evenly. She wouldn’t know how to even go about getting a job of her own, but knew his head injury would have to change everything.

Barry’s file wouldn’t land on my desk until two years later. I don’t know how my assistant smuggled it out of the police department, but I think we are all entitled to our secrets.

A Story About Promises

So what if he broke the truck, he shouldn’t have to stay in his room. What should Tony care about his brother’s stupid truck? What did it matter what it cost? He wasn’t trying to be mean or anything. He was just playing with it. He had to share all his toys. So what if he liked the way it looked when he dropped it off things. That’s how he was playing with it. What was he supposed to do? Push it around like baby? Make baby vroom-vroom noises? That’s stupid.

Tony made up a game that involved throwing the basketball sized dump truck in the air at a spin. The goal was to make it land on the wheels. It only took twenty minutes before Tony had the rhythm down, two rotations and then it landed flatly on the grass. He managed four spins when he felt the game need to be taken to new heights. If he stood on the picnic table he could get up to five. His brother watched from inside the glass door, more fascinated then jealous.

Tony’s tabletop vantage made him wonder why he had been aiming at the grass. A simple turn pointed him at the paved patio. He paused before this throw. His body rippled with risk. This sensation had been the secret objective. He heaved the toy airborne with calculated rotation. It almost completed five rotations, before scraping the ground and landing with unsatisfying bounce that sent it off its wheels. His brother clapped anyway.

Ambition got the best of him and the next throw went for a sloppy six spins. The truck clattered on the cement, sending a chipped plastic bit in the air, ultimately landing on the roof. He stepped onto the next available idea and he went into the garage to get a ladder. His brother stared like a goldfish through the glass. In the kitchen his mother chopped carrots for dinner.