Short Fiction — Modern American Boy

Today’s creative writing lab was heavily influenced by Jamaica Kincaid’s Girl, which I highly recommend. The imperative style is really neat, and I had fun with this one.

I’d like to revisit this at a later date and flesh it out more. It hits a little too on the nose for my taste, and I’d like to imply more with contextual clues instead of spelling out this father’s advice.


Modern American Boy

Boy, take your time and absorb what is around you. Your impulses will get you in trouble. You can be a few minutes late to work, you don’t need to speed. Make up for it by leaving a few minutes earlier tomorrow. Be early. Respect the system, be on time, work hard, earn your keep. Don’t rush. Mind your manners; be strong; be in touch with your emotions but don’t share them. Don’t stare at girls too long; don’t put girls down; don’t objectify them; appreciate their form, their figure, their mind, but don’t make crass remarks. Girls will be there later, tomorrow, and the next day. Focus on what you need for the future, not what makes you feel good right now. Pay attention to instructions; follow the rules; be patient; be a good student, be a good worker, be a good son, be a good spouse, and be a good man. Be mindful of your impulses and don’t jump in feet first. Don’t start fights; finish them. Stand up for what is right; pick and choose when to act. Don’t jump in feet first if you can’t see the bottom. I heard you. Don’t misbehave in class; don’t smoke in bathrooms; don’t go out drinking when you have a test in the morning; don’t arrange dates with two women on the same day; don’t date two women with different names at the same time; don’t fall for the grass being greener; don’t ruin marriages, don’t ruin families, don’t ruin your son. I am not ruined. Be there for those that need you. Be strong.

 

Short Fiction – Avoidance

As work drew to a close, he thought about the awkward encounter awaiting him at home. For the last week and a half, he and his wife had grown distant. They slept on the far edges of their side of the bed, and recoiled when their skin grazed one another’s. Their conversations were short, close-ended exchanges of one or two word answers. There was no compassion, there was no attraction, there was just empty space. And that’s what he wanted. He’d grown tired of the incessant attempts his wife made to rekindle the passion. “I can’t stand her dumb questions about my day,” he mumbled to himself as he slowed his work pace. “If I’m a half hour late, so be it. It’s another half hour of not dealing with that bullshit.”

She sat at home, anxious. Unfortunately, her thoughts were spiraling again. She couldn’t pin exactly when her anxiety became so unmanageable, but it reared its ugly head all too often. Her only distraction at this point was seeing that the clock was nearing 9:00 pm, and he would be home soon. Asking him about his day was her way of trying to escape the reality of how little she accomplished battling her anxiety. It was her escape, and often, it was her only contact with the world outside the house.

At 10:45, His phone rang. He lost himself in paperwork that didn’t need to be finished, and lost track of time. “Of course it’s her. She just can’t do anything on her own.” He sent the call to voicemail. “I’ll go home when I’m good and ready.”

“I wonder why he’s not picking up. He must be with another woman. One that isn’t crazy. One that doesn’t drive him nuts with her fidgeting and panic.” The phone call kicked to voicemail. “It has to be it. He can’t bother to answer the phone, and he’s an hour late. Of course he’s with another woman.” She had memorized the voicemail at this point, as every call she made to him went unanswered. Her message, too, had become rehearsed. “Hey, it’s me,” she tepidly began, “I guess you’re stuck at work again… Give me a call… Please.

Short Fiction – The DMV

One of my classes this semester is an English course focused on short story fiction. Each week, we spend an hour in a computer lab writing drafts, and I’m pretty happy with how a couple have turned out already. I’ll be sharing the ones I like and my goal is to flesh out these short drafts into full treatments.

First up, is my venture into writing in second person point of view, about a trip to the DMV. After years of personal story telling on my blogs, the creative license that fiction adds is really enticing.


It’s Thursday, and you’ve got two hours between class and work. You got stuck at work late last night and only got three hours of sleep, so the day’s off to a great start. It’s pretty typical lately, burning the candle at both ends, trying to divert energy equally to all of your obligations, and that’s where you fucked up. Today’s the last day your car is registered; gone is the easy option of mailing in the card they sent out four months ago, and there’s some archaic restriction on the web site that won’t let you renew online if it’s on or after the day it expires. Your ability to drive is paramount to keeping your job, and paying out-of-pocket for school is your only option, so you make this renewal a priority because so much hinges on having a car to drive.

You’re distracted through your three hours of class, anticipating the worst. The DMV is known for taking forever, with long lines, and apathetic tellers that are less than helpful. You could be like your father, and let the registration lapse. Which, in turn, invalidates your insurance. Which, in turn, suspends your license. Which, in turn, leads to your car loan being invalidated. Which, in turn, leads you to parking the car around the corner in a buddy’s garage to keep your car from being repossessed. He drove a car like that for four years before he got caught and played ignorant to it all. Remember that time your car was uninspected for three days and you got a ticket over it? Let’s not risk your job and school over a half-hour visit to the DMV.

You get through class, get out of the parking lot, and make it to the DMV. It’s on a one-way street that doesn’t have enough parking, so you start to worry about your two-hour window. It took twenty minutes to get there from school, and of course, there’s no parking. You need to circle the block another ten minutes to snag a space. It doesn’t have blue lines, but it feels like a handicap space. More stress. Imagine your car gets towed as you’re trying to renew the registration!

You notice how the door always sticks as you go inside. How old is this damn building? After the foyer, your nose scrunches at the musty, moldy smell. Your eyes squint at the dated manila paint job, and flickering fluorescent lighting. The sign says there’s an unemployment office upstairs, and the DMV is to the right.

Your eyes widen as you round the corner to the DMV’s hallway. There’s a line out the door. Of course there’s a fucking line out the door.