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Click. Click. Click. Mary Jane shoes echoed on the tile. At the end of the aisle, a woman pulled along a girl with head full of bouncing curls and frilly dress. As the footfalls grew louder, my pulse quickened. Here comes another pageant mom, I thought. Pageant moms were the worst. The only thing worse was a pageant dad that I once had the displeasure of meeting.

He was in Lincoln, Nebraska, not a place I would have expected. A half hour before I was supposed to go to lunch, he showed up with a little girl in a fluffy pink dress lined with a crinoline. He dropped an over sized pink duffel on my display table, knocking half of the items to the floor. He never apologized or offered to pick any of it up.

Photo by Andhika Y. Wiguna on Unsplash

The once bustling big-box store was now a shadow of its former self. My foot steps made echoing sounds as I walked across the filthy tile. Half of what remained was torn-up boxes, bubble wrap, and battered store fixtures. A hoard of customers descend on the remaining merchandise to gobble it up. Several of them had shopping carts heaped with cheaply produced clothing, toys, and small appliances.

“Hey, you,” a nasally woman shouted.

I instinctively looked in her direction.

“Yeah, you. Is this your best price?” She jostled a box with a picture of a toaster oven on it.

“Sorry, I…”

The woman cut me off. “You know that’s the problem with these liquidation sales. You’ve got to get rid of it, but you don’t mark it down enough.”

“I don’t work here,” I blurted.

“Well, damn it. You shouldn’t dress in those colors to shop here.” She waddled off in search of a new victim.

Photo by Syed Hussaini on Unsplash

As I settled into the driver’s seat, the fob, ignition, and house keys slipped from my fingers. They fell between the seat and console before settling on the floor. I tried to reach them from the front floorboard, between the front and backseat, and the passenger seat. I had worked up a light sweat before I pinched something between my fingertips and the side of the driver’s seat. The headlights flashed twice. I had them. I dropped them.

My fingertips touched the fob again. A button depressed as I tried to walk it up between the console and side of the seat. The horn honked. Startled, I dropped the fob before I could turn the horn off. My fingers touched them again. This time I flicked them towards the backseat. I tried again from the backseat. Failed. Again from the driver’s seat, I pinched and retrieved them, then promptly shut the horn off. I rubbed the bruise on the back of my hand, a souvenir of my mighty battle with the fob.

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My morning break was nearly over. I got on the elevator with Tory and David to ride it back to the fifteenth floor. David stood quietly. Tory yammered into her phone about a reality show. I watched the numbers change on the lit panel. Seven…Eight…a jolt knocked us off our feet as the lights went out. My back hurt and head throbbed.

Continue reading “Outage” →

Photo by Church of the King on Unsplash

A new rider occupied one of the two sideways facing seats on the bus. Sideways seats hold two adults very comfortably or three uncomfortably. This woman had angled herself and bags so no one could sit with her. She sat with her arms crossed scowled at each person who walked by her, including me.

I sat down across from her, keeping my sunglasses on. She looked like she could take on a grown man in a dark alley and win. Also the type to ride as far as at the Porter Street freeway overpass. The bus normally takes the freeway the entire way from downtown to an outer southwestern suburb. It hasn’t since road construction started earlier this year.

Photo by Dan Gold on Unsplash

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” a man said from behind me. “I bet you haven’t seen a car like this one, have ya?” A gray haired man sidled up next to me and rubbed the black vinyl roof of the old green car. Our eyes met. He had to be in his mid-seventies, old enough to be my dad.

“Actually, I have seen a car like this one. Even the same color of green. I drove it for a couple of years.”

“Nah, really? You don’t look old enough to have driven car this old. Bet you don’t even know what type of car this is.” He cocked his head and winked. “No peeking. Take a wild guess.”

Photo by Adan Guerrero on Unsplash

The damp grit crunched under my non-slip, geriatric style shoes as I walked the three blocks from Methodist Hospital to my studio apartment. Hopefully, the street sweepers will clean up the grime next month. Cigarette butts, beer cans, and fast food wrappers dotted the curbside on either side of Fillmore Street. Too bad this morning’s downpour didn’t wash much of it away. Instead it glued it to the pavement.

The air smelled of rain and the dull gray clouds threatened to open up again. The humid air made my laundry uniform cling tighter to my sweaty body. A shower would feel wonderful, but my studio doesn’t have one – only has a clawfoot tub.

Ugh, as usual, smoking dude is out front. I don’t want to talk to him today. Why isn’t he working somewhere? He doesn’t appear disabled. Unemployment doesn’t pay enough for him to chain smoke his Swisher Sweets. Maybe he smokes instead of eats, he’s awfully thin.