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fiction

Fifth of July

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July 5th was always an abysmal day in our household growing up. My father so loved the Fourth of July that he would attempt to out-do himself year after year. The summer I was nine years old I distinctly remember hearing him argue with my mother through the thin walls of the house that we could barely afford (mostly due to the exorbitant firework and flag budget). 

My mother had been trying to reason with him, telling him that things had gotten out of hand. He called her a communist and told her to move back to Russia (my mother was Canadian, by the way). She got so angry that she stormed onto the back patio and took to cutting up his favorite apron—an American flag patterned one that said “Kiss me, I’m a Patriot.” We were soon to find out, however, that he had about six more of these in his gun safe. 

That was the same year that our neighbor, old one-eyed Janice, had come into our backyard screaming at my father about the inappropriateness of the all-night firework display on a Tuesday night. My father muttered a comment about her being a treasonous prude as he lit the fireworks he was holding in his hand. Then he removed his cap and started singing the star-spangled banner while launching the fireworks directly at Janice, who had been known as two-eyed Janice before this particular incident.

I still remember how hard my dad laughed, holding his hand over one eye and mocking her wales of pain. But no matter how good of a time he had on the Fourth, and he usually had quite a good time, the Fifth of July brought with it a freedom hangover that would rival the most dismal opioid withdrawals. 

My dad would shuffle from his bedroom, his brown hair knotted and tangled in a strange nest on his head, his bloodshot eyes wincing at even the dimmest of lights, and wearing nothing but his favorite apron, holding a warm half-finished beer from the night before in his shaky hand. I was young, but even then I remember knowing that the beer smelled cheap.

He sat at the breakfast table, simmering in his barely contained fury and disappointment. If his coffee, newspaper, and hearty breakfast didn’t appear within a few moments, his wrath would be uncontained. 

Of course, it didn’t take long of him looking at the newspaper to find something or other to curse the world over. He seemed incredulous and angry that his celebration of America had not fixed the turmoil, strife, and conflict across the nation. He could never understand why people refused to honor his country like he did every Fourth of July. He would look as though he’d never be happy again.

Maybe he never was. Less than a week later he had a heart attack while berating his doctor. The poor doctor was new to the clinic and didn’t read the note in my dad’s chart that said “Offering medical opinions will send him into a blind rage.” 

His last will and testament stated that he was to be buried on the Fourth of July. That his tombstone should be in the shape of a steely-eyed eagle, and the firework display should last from mid-afternoon until the next day. 

My mom refused to do any of those things (for obvious reasons). Within 24 hours he was cremated and his ashes were spread over the gun counter at his favorite Walmart Superstore. All in all, I think he would have been fine with that.

fiction

Stuffed Animals – AITA

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So, I’ve got a situation and I just want to know if I’m the A-hole here: My son is two years old and loves animals, and naturally, wants stuffed animals. My wife and I have never really bought him any stuffed animals before. He had a couple when he was a baby, but they got so slobbered on and grimy that we tossed them. Well, now he really wants some stuffed animals.

I didn’t see why not, and my wife agreed. She was out of town for work though, so it was my job to pick out some cute stuffed animals. Which I did. Well, she’s back from her little work trip and is Furious (capital ‘F’) with me about the animals I chose.

I got my son 3 stuffed animals: A dog (Dachshund), a cat (orange), and a squirrel. I even went the extra mile to make sure I wasn’t buying them from some terrible corporate oligarch, or from a company that outsources their work to sweatshops. I also went organic, all-natural stuffed animals to produce the smallest carbon footprint I could (because I care about the environment!). 

AND I got a discount because my friend was the taxidermist (See, I’m even financially responsible! But again, decide for yourself who is right).

Long story short, my wife wants to get rid of my child’s treasured stuffed animals because they used to be alive (or something like that). I think she’s making a mountain out of a mole-hill, much like how my friend once made a lamp out of a platypus. And also, my son already fell in love with them! He says they smell kinda funny, but insists on sleeping with them anyway.

So, there’s the situation. Am I the A-hole??

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fiction

Obituary

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If purgatory is truly a possible destination, Jacob Renz is the exact person it was made for. Close friends often remember him as “Okay.” Whenever his name came up, co-workers would be the first ones to say, “Who?”

Who indeed, was this man that was neither great, nor wicked. He stood paper-thin on the line that divides good and evil, so that if you stared at the right angle, he was impossible to notice.

Family members loved the way that they didn’t feel strongly toward Jacob one way or another. He is remembered most as being technically blood-related, and for not forcing awkward conversations on people at family gatherings. “He was my husband,” says his wife of 20 years, “and I don’t have any complaints about him,” she had added with a shrug. His two children had fond memories of not having bad memories of their father. “I really appreciated the way that he never beat us, or emotionally abused us.”

Jacob Renz was a middle-of-the-road man that this world neither needs more, nor less of. He was not a hero, or larger-than-life figure that people will seek to build statues of. Neither was he a bad man who left behind grudges and unsettled scores. And for that, we can all feel satisfied in knowing that his death brings neither intense joy, nor deep sadness to anyone who knew him.

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fiction

Duke

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In my prime, I was the best in the business. No one could run down dealers and addicts like me. Between the two of us, my partner and I received numerous accolades, made dozens of newspaper appearances, and were even asked to participate in photoshoots with various elected officials. He got promotions and bonuses; I got belly rubs and treats. Life was good.

I say ‘was’ because just as you think life is going to be all tail wags and Beggin’ Strips, you get a reality check. I became the very thing that I was so good at hunting, an addict. 

In the business, you see it a lot. Many good boys suddenly have a hard time coping with all the action. It starts slowly: first, you just need it once in a while to clear your mind and feel better. Then, you find yourself skulking around, looking to get more of that sweet relief from anyone you can. 

I suppose I should properly introduce myself. My name is Duke, and I’m addicted to walks.

Not long after my habit started, it began to affect my work. If I didn’t get a nice big walk at least twice a day, I became fidgety and irritable. Not only that, I became ruthless. I once bit a suspect’s ear off on an undercover sting operation when he said he quote “wanted to walk away from the deal,” and then I didn’t get a walk. But fortunately, he was a cokehead and I had a long and distinguished record, so the paperwork got ‘lost’. Everyone in the department looked at me differently though.

At my lowest, I was licking peanut butter from anywhere I needed to just to be taken for a quarter-mile stroll. In the end however, it brought me no satisfaction. I always expected it to be as thrilling as I remember my first walk being, but it never was. Recovering walkaholics call this craving and letdown cycle “Chasing the squirrel.” 

Within a month I was pressured into an early retirement from the force, so my working days are behind me now. I still remember the chuckles from others in the office when someone joked that I was being given my “walking” papers. Real funny fellas, hope you enjoy the turds I left in your desk drawers. 

Since retirement, I have been taking it easy and trying to enjoy some much-needed R & R. It can be hard to do when you’re used to the daily grind like me, and also when you’re battling a pretty severe walking addiction. But hey, one day at a time, right? 

I’m often reminded of something my father used to tell me: “You can’t always be in a race around the track, sometimes you need to stop and smell the hydrants.” He was a wise dog. I miss him, but he’s in a better place now—A farm upstate. A tapeworm got stuck inside his intestines and required expensive surgery to fix it. Luckily, his retirement benefits kicked in so he was sent for surgery at the farm (from the best surgeon around they say!) and he will be recovering for many years. Although the surgery sounds quite serious, I’m glad he gets to spend all that time at a farm because he loves barking at chickens.

As for me, I will be sitting in the shade and taking long, cool sips of water from my bowl as I think about the glory days. I may have done some shameful things, but the good outweighed the bad by a mile. Who’s still a good boy? Me... that’s who.

fiction

Cheapskate

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Strangers will often surprise you. That’s one of their worst qualities. I enjoy predictable strangers, who will stand quietly as we ride an elevator together, sit quietly next to me on a plane, or in general, never acknowledge my existence in any way. That would be ideal. I try to be this type of stranger to others. A glaring violator of my preferences is the man who ate at the table near mine during lunchtime yesterday at my favorite Chili’s.

I was there with a co-worker who admittedly is irrelevant to this story, but important to the image I am portraying because I don’t want to be seen as a man who eats alone. We had just received our meals when a man approached our table while his lady-companion took a seat at the table next to ours. I will call the man Jeff because that is what I heard his annoyed companion call him a short time afterward (A saint of a woman if you ask me).

“How much did that cost?” Jeff asked me, gesturing at my bacon cheeseburger and fries in a plastic basket. The fact that he spoke to me at all nearly ruined my meal, but his tone made it worse. He asked the question like he had just walked up to the hotel clerk and asked the wi-fi password. I don’t work here (in case I haven’t made that clear).

I looked up at him and collapsed my eyebrows down further on my face, and then glanced back at my meal as if considering how much it had cost. I knew how much it cost. The prices were right there on the menu, $12.95. “Nine bucks,” I said. You may wonder why I chose to lie, but I don’t see it as a lie. If you ask me a question that you have no right to ask me, it’s not a lie if I tell you the wrong answer. Misleading you is an appropriate response to your rude behavior. You don’t deserve a correct answer.

Now, due to this forced interaction, I can’t help but to keep tabs on Jeff through various sideways glances in his direction. He’s got shaggy hair, in badly need of a cut, but has decided to wear a tattered baseball hat instead. He must be married to the unfortunate woman across the table, because no self-respecting single woman would be seen with a man who puts so little effort into his appearance. My critique is broken by the vibrating phone in my pocket —my brother Josh is calling.

I ignore it, but not just because I’m at dinner. I wouldn’t have answered anyway, even if I wasn’t busy. I don’t have a strained relationship with my brother, but he is the one who wants to talk to me. I’m not going to make myself available just because someone has something to say. Your phone call is just a request to talk. I will respond to your request at a convenient time for me since I’m doing you the favor by making time for whatever crap you want to talk about. Ignoring phone calls isn’t rude at all if you actually think about it. Who are you to dictate 1) that I have to talk to you, and 2) that I have to do it right this instant? You think you can decide those things just because you happen to have my phone number? Get over yourself, a lot of people have my number.

But anyway, making great points about phone etiquette is not the point of this story. The point is, Jeff opened himself up to being judged and I will continue to judge him. I now notice that he has on a Turkey Trot 5K T-shirt (it’s June by the way). But for the sake of expediency, I will ignore the season discrepancy of his attire. A 5K shirt? really? Does everyone you interact with need to know that seven months ago you walked 5K? Is that part of your identity? Between the stupid T-shirt and aforementioned head aesthetics, I determine he’s a shlub. Or maybe, he’s just cheap. I mean, it is a free T-shirt, and he did have the audacity to ask the price of my meal.

As the afternoon rolled on, I picked up more evidence that Jeff is, in fact, one cheap bastard. He suggests some bottom-tier menu options to his wife and then allowed her to order first. A gentleman? Far from it. After she orders, he then quickly slaps his menu shut and says to the waiter, “We’ll be splitting that.” The woman shot him a look that made it clear to me, and anyone else that was as absorbed with that table as I was, that they had not discussed this decision beforehand.

But alright, maybe they are just not very wealthy. Fair point, me. I decided that I would do further research. I look across that table at a clearly annoyed co-worker, so I decide to let him into the investigation, “What do you think?” I say to him, “Is that guy cheap or poor?”

“What guy?” he says, oblivious as a child.

“What guy?” I repeat, incredulous that I work with such a dullard, “the guy that asked me how much this food costs.”

“Oh,” he says dumbly, “That was like… 10 minutes ago. Have you been thinking about him this whole time?”

I shrug and go back to silently eating my food and subtly watching Jeff be insufferable. With most of his food gone, he calls the waiter over to show him something, a hair in his food. Jeff got angry and really animated after the waiter politely suggested that it could be his (Jeff’s) hair in the food. Upon further examination that is a quite reasonable suggestion since its length, waviness, and color all exactly match the hair of the person eating the meal. After some back and forth and one-sided politeness on behalf of the waiter, I see this poor servile man apologize and excuse himself.

Jeff quickly became in good spirits and gave his wife a nod and smile as if to say, “See? It worked.” I know Jeff so well at this point that he hardly feels like a stranger; he now feels more like an awful acquaintance. I finish my meal and see my eating companion is distracted by his phone. That feels rude, but I choose to ignore it since the waiter was heading back to Jeff’s table with the check. Jeff seemed confused that the meal wasn’t free, and then started to pat the pockets of his jeans and the imaginary pockets on his tacky 5K t-shirt before giving his wife an unconvincing look of shock. This show is clearly for the benefit of the waiter who needs to believe that Jeff accidentally forgot his wallet in the car. Jeff left for his car and never came back.

For fifteen minutes I watched his unfortunate wife(?) become more flushed and embarrassed, constantly checking her watch for the time. Finally, I see her look around and then covered her face with one hand as she took hurried steps out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. Jeff then pulled up in a newer model sports car and apologized to his wife until she finally got in. I knew it, a damn cheapskate.

Moments later the bill arrived for my and my co-worker’s meal. “You got this?” I say as I turned to leave. I was already late getting back to work.