Jackie and the Cherry Picker

Jackie struggled under the weight of the wide-screen TV, working her way down to the pawn shop as her mother had commanded. The TV made it hard to see where she was going, so she wasn't surprised to be surprised by a man in a sharp suit. "That's a nice TV," the man said. "I could make you an offer."

Jackie set the wide-screen down, grateful for an excuse for a break. She scratched her head. "Mom said to take it to the pawn shop."

"Why pawn it for cash when you could trade it for something that could bring you real fortune?" He showed Jackie around the corner to a small cherry picker. "The tank is topped off. She's all ready to make you money washing windows, fixing street lights, whatever. Far more than you could get pawning it."

Eyes swimming with visions of riding the cherry picker up into wealth, Jackie shook on it and drove the cherry picker home. her mother was furious. It wasn't worth the dents it made in the dirt, she said, and she parked it out back and made Jackie skip out on the supper they couldn't afford.

The next morning, Jackie snuck out before her mother was awake and went for a ride in the basket, raising it as high as it could go. Only when she looked down and saw her mother's dilapidated roof far below did she realize she had gone higher than should've been possible.

Continuing up, the basket lifted her to the top of a skyscraper where she stepped off onto the balcony. "The CEO will be back any minute," cried the secretary. "Quick, hide in the executive washroom!" Jackie followed the secretary, but not before seeing a cadillac health plan resting on the CEO's desk.

"Dee, die, doh, dor," roared the voice of an older white man. "I smell the clothes of someone poor!" Jackie held the washroom door open a crack and saw a hundred-thousand-dollar suit burst in, wrapped around a wrinkly old man. "Is there a poor person here?"

"Oh, no, sir," said the secretary.

"Hmph. Fine. Take a letter." Hours later, after the work day had ended, Jackie slipped out and returned to the cherry picker, grabbing the cadillac health plan on her way. When her mother saw her coming down, she thrust the plan into her arms before she could yell. That night they had general check-ups for the first time in years.

The next morning, Jackie's mother sent her back up the cherry picker to see what else she could get. When she reached the balcony, Jackie saw the CEO meeting with three top executives. During a moment of high mercantile fervor, the secretary snuck her back into the washroom.

"Dee, die, doh, dor," boomed the CEO, "I smell the clothes of someone poor!" The top executives all nodded and agreed. "Is there a poor person here?"

"Oh, no, sir," said the secretary, taking notes.

Hours later, when the top executives had finished saying yes to the CEO and left, Jackie snuck back into the office and went through the CEO's desk while the man was loitering at his wet bar. She almost despaired at finding anything useful until she spotted a card labeled, "Politicians." Rushing away before the CEO turned, she slammed the lever on the cherry picker. The basket wobbled, but lowered her to the ground.

When her mother saw what she'd brought, they used their new politicians to vote for social assistance programs for the entire city.

Jackie eagerly went up in the basket the next morning. As soon as she stepped off the cherry picker, the CEO left his office and Jackie went in. "You don't have time," hissed the secretary. "He'll be back any second."

"Dee, die, doh, dor," boomed the CEO, "I see the face of someone poor!" He stepped back into the office. "Two someones, actually. You're fired," he said to the secretary. "Security will see you out. As for you, the police will be here shortly."

Jackie was quick. Grabbing the first valuable thing she saw, shining and gold, she ran for the cherry picker. The CEO ran after her. Both leapt into the basket, which wobbled dangerously, and they wrestled over the controls. The CEO tried to cut Jackie with a severance package, but missed because Jackie wasn't his employee. The razor-sharp edge hit the crane, sending the basket, CEO, and Jackie all plummeting to earth.

The CEO laughed and fell in comfort, not knowing that Jackie had, in her haste, grabbed the CEO's golden parachute. The safety net billowed open, giving the CEO a scant second to realize his fate before liquifying his assets on the pavement. Jackie, on the other hand, landed gently with hundreds of millions of dollars and generous stock options.

In the chaos that followed, no one at the company had time to pursue Jackie or her mother, so busy were they scrambling for the top position. They even forgot to fire the secretary.

Jackie now owns a fleet of cherry pickers and a national window-washing chain. She primarily employs minorities in part-time positions that allow her to avoid paying benefits.

The Enemy of Beauty

The early morning fog drifted lazily between the trees. Tetyana paused for a photo as she bicycled to work. "What a beautiful fog," she said. Wind breathed through the mists, which swirled as though preening. As she biked on, the mist filled the streets behind her. She cycled faster, but in the time it took her to lock up her bike at work, fog had filled the parking lot. It spun and whorled as though hidden creatures danced just inside the mist's concealing embrace.

Tetyana hastened into the hospital, and the mist followed. Others gasped as it crept along behind her. But whenever she looked, the fog danced as though caught in a breeze.

Despite her haste and closed doors, she couldn't lose the fog. It found her in the changing room, in her office, and as she made her rounds. When it followed her into surgery, she snapped at it.

"Vanity is the enemy of beauty," she said. "When you demand attention, I cannot see your beauty. If you stop following me, I promise to visit you each morning and watch you dance. Okay?"

The fog was unnaturally still, then receded. Each morning thereafter, the fog danced for her.

Allergic to French

"Oh, no, I couldn't see Hamilton," Lana said. "I'd just have a reaction." "Yeah, I hear it's pretty intense," said Caleb.

"Not that. I'm allergic to French. Couldn't even go near that other French musical."

"Les—"

"Don't say it!"

"You can't really be allergic to a language."

"Tell that to the hives that break out whenever I hear it."

"I mean, it's just impossible. There's nothing to trigger a histamine response."

"Don't know what to tell you." Lana shrugged.

"It's gotta be psychosomatic. Have you seen a therapist?"

"Who sees a therapist over allergies?"

"People with fake allergies?" Caleb got a nasty look for that. "Okay, what about all the French cognates in  English?"

"No effect. I figure I've built up immunity."

"That's not... wait. Have you ever tried taking anti-histamines then listening to French?"

"No?"

"I'm sure it'll work." He handed her a couple from his supply. "Fifteen minutes, and we'll test you on some French."

"I thought you didn't believe I was allergic." She looked suspicious.

"Hey, either I'm wrong and this helps, or I'm right and this does nothing." She rolled her eyes but took the pills. Fifteen minutes later he interrupted her with "excusez-moi."

She sneezed.

How to Win a Fight

"I don't wanna fight, man." Vernon looked at the slick-haired, expensive-clothed man standing in his personal space. The crowded bar was dim and modern, as slick as the man's hair. "And I didn't want your fucking beer all over my pants. We both get to be disappointed. Outside!" Vernon shrugged and headed for the parking lot. His friends begged him to ignore the bully, but they followed. The bully's friends came too, enthusiastic.

The two groups formed a circle on the sidewalk, Vernon and his opponent in the middle. Vernon shrugged off his jacket. "That's right," said the other man. "Time to do this." He handed his jacket to one of his jeering friends. Vernon unbuttoned his cuffs. "Yeah, okay." The bully rolled up his sleeves, then frowned when Vernon took off his shirt.

"What are you doing, man?"

"Getting ready to fight." Vernon slipped off his shoes and unbuckled his belt.

"Stop it, freak. Let's go!"

"Not 'till I'm ready." Vernon stepped out of his pants. He hooked his thumbs into his waistband.

The man flinched. "Fuck this freak! Let's go!" He and his friends left, hurling insults behind them.

"And that's how you win a fight," Vernon said.

Not One Thing

"What do you look so happy about?" Jean pulled the apron over her head and tied it in back, then pulled out flour for the day's baking. "What do you mean?" Marcus finished getting the coffee going.

"No one grins like that at four in the morning. So give." Tubs of butter and jams followed the flour onto the counter.

Marcus grinned. "So, I like this girl. Last night... we kinda got together. Nothing could spoil my mood today."

"Nothing?" Jean's eyes narrowed.

"Not one thing," Marcus said. "Look, whatever you're planning, save it for after the first load's in the ovens, yeah?"

Jean tried everything she thought of. She put the wrong syrup in his coffee, spilled ink on his shirt, and texted his ex on his phone. After each attempt, he smiled and shook his head.

Walking out to the bus stop after their shift, Jean said, "So, nothing, huh?"

With the same grin, Marcus said, "Yeah. Noth—"

Light flared in the sky, hurting their eyes. When they looked back, a mushroom cloud rose on the horizon. Jean gaped in shock.

"It's stupid," he said, "but I'm still happy. At least she and I got one night together."

You Bumped Me

Two AM, a dim street, almost deserted. Don managed to bump into someone anyway. Someone following him would mark it as the fourth person he'd run into. "Watch it, asshole," Don said. "You watch it, you little shit. You bumped into me." The guy stopped and faced him directly. Don had to work not to smile.

"Are you blind, motherfucker? You bumped me."

"Whatever." The guy turned away.

"Don't walk away from me!" Don shoved him. The guy turned around swinging a fist but Don stepped out of range and raised his fists. "You wanna take me?"

"Leave me alone, man." The guy looked ready for a punch. "I'm just going home."

"Not without a beating."

He drew a small gun from behind his back. "Just walk away."

"Oh, God." Don fell to his knees. "I'm sorry, please, please don't kill me. Please!" The abrupt change puzzled the man. Don crawled forward on his knees until he was close enough to grovel. "Please, please don't shoot—" Don twisted the gun in the man's hands and pulled the trigger over and over, discharging multiple rounds into the stranger.

"—me," Don finished with a smile. Mentally rehearsing his story, Don dialed 911.

If It Would Be Appropriate

Rich answered the door and found a short, young woman in blue coveralls with a ponytail of straight chestnut hair and a bright smile. His first thought was that she was cute. He wondered if it would be appropriate to ask her out. "Yes?" he said.

"Richard Landry?" Her voice was warm. It made him feel warm.

"That's me." He smiled, hoping it was as nice as her smile.

"Great. I'm here on business." He glanced at her card as he took it: Reclamation Services. "I'm hoping you can help me."

"Well, I'm pretty sure my car is paid up." Was that suave? He hoped it was suave.

"Oh, it's not that. Are you familiar with reincarnation?"

Rich's smile slipped. She was cute and cheery, but Rich was regretting being so friendly. "Um, I guess? Souls being reborn and stuff. Are you... evangelizing?"

"Nope." She grinned. "If you'll just come with me, I can explain."

"Go with you? Where?"

"You'll see. C'mon. It's time, Richard." He barely felt her gentle hand on his elbow, but it pulled him forward, inexorable. As he followed her, he looked at the card again.

"Oh," he said. "So... want to get a drink sometime?"