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Current mood:  lonely Category: Writing and Poetry
I decided to throw a story up here for y'all to read (don't worry, its super-short fiction).
Lines
He sees no point to standing in line again, bearing no illusions about the outcome of this latest attempt for a mere chance.
Since she left, he's been standing in lines for months.
He never had insurance, so no doctor ever diagnosed his back.
He must work full-time-plus to get enough money. He can barely walk part-time, let alone work anytime.
He already knows the answer that awaits him in the stained seat at the window: "You don't qualify for aid at this time. You can try again in 90 days. Next"
Translation: "You don't have enough of the traits necessary in order to merit priority consideration. Consequently, since there's not enough to go around, you and your illegitimate children can fuck-off. If you're still alive in three months, you can always come by and we'll be happy to tell you again. Next."
He gazes about the room containing his "Tuesday line". Nothing changes in the lobby of D.H.S.; same fliers (mostly non-English), same dark-circled eyes, same smell.
He holds his bag with $43.38 in change stolen from parking meters.
In his other hand, he clasps the hand of his oldest.
Apparently, the fat County Commissioner is checking-up on this office. The Commissioner emerges from the door to the offices. With rings and Rolex glittering, the Commish toddles to the vending machine, produces his billfold, and opens it.
There's thousands of dollars in there, dozens of metallic cards too.
He squeezes his oldest's hand.
With white-knuckled intensity, he tightens his grip on his bag.
His decision made, he stares intently at the back of the head before him in Tuesday's line.
With an armload of chocolate and chips, The Commissioner waddles past him on the way back to the offices.
He dredges-up every ounce of frustration, depression, and desperation he has ever felt, particularly over these past months. Pouring the volcanic outrage into his arm, he swings the $43.38 of metal pittances for all he's worth.
Its the most beautiful and horrifying thing he's ever experienced. An instant of overwhelming touch, sound, and sight define the moment.
The crackling shock of change-to-fattened-face-bone recoils through his arm, wrenching his shoulder and traveling beyond to his other arm. It looks as if a quarter-second after the hit, he shakes his oldest's hand.
The sound of a thousand bells simultaneously raping a single overripe melon cascades through the seventies decor and divot-riddled linoleum hall.
A star-burst of coins accentuated by the shimmering, crimson mist from the Commissioner's nose erupts around the metal-flesh collision.
The County Commissioner crumples as the ringing rain rattles the surfaces about his falling form. The K.O.ed Commish's eyes roll backward and his limbs fall limp, dropping chocolate, chips and billfold amidst the pinkish collage of presidential profiles and national monuments.
Rejuvenated by panic and adrenaline, he reaches to snatch the billfold. His outstretched hand claps closed, empty.
He swings his head about, searching for the opportunist with the gall to steal his ill-gotten goods.
An alarm sounds.
Police are coming, fast.
"Daddy?" pipes his oldest.
He waves his child to silence without looking down, continuing his frantic scan of the lobby.
The angelic insistence calls his name again.
"Daddy?"
Again he hushes the child, unready to explain his despicable actions. He must first justify the attack to himself before he can even fathom how to rationalize his brutality to anyone else, particularly his boy.
Once more comes the innocently unforgiving chime, "Daddy? Can we go back to the car?"
Deciding to abandon his greedy errand and tend his son, he takes his oldest into his arm and heads for the exit and the car where his family lives.
He pauses, remembering that his kids love candy and chips.
He turns, kneels, and gathers goodies into his other arm before taking both precious loads and fleeing the scene.
His back doesn't seem to hurt right now. He simply accepts the blessing without question; these past months had taught him that Fortune smiles only briefly on the unfortunate before turning her gaze elsewhere.
Back in the car, the sitter dismissed, the family of four is back on the road. He tries to explain himself to his oldest, but the child speaks first.
"Since your old one was all ripped and holey, I found this for you Daddy."
The child produces the Commissioners billfold from his jacket and places the treasure on his father's lap.
"Daddy, Can we have a snack now?"
Moments away from promising all the junk-food in Hershey, he changes his mind.
"Later," he answers, "after dinner."
Thrilled at the idea of a meal, his children ask, "Where are we going for dinner Daddy?"
"Anywhere you want," he answers, "but no buffets."
5:07 AM
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