Still Maybe Tomorrow

"What can I get you?" he asked. Pen in hand, pad on the counter, smiling and looking at the customer. "You're not Stopsky's," said the woman. "You'll never be Stopsky's." She marched out the door, leaving him only her scorn echoing in his ears.

"Don't worry about her," said the older woman next in line. "She just missed the place that was here before.

"I get that," he said. "It's no problem." As he took her order, and the orders following, he thought about the woman. What had this place been to her? Was it a home away from home? An escape, a refuge that had been closed, gutted, and made alien to her?

The line had gone, and he saw her outside, watching. How would he feel in her place? He imagined his childhood home turned into an accountant's office, looking the same outside but not. She came inside.

He greeted her.

"I'm angry," she said. "But it's not your fault. I'm sorry."

"Okay." He grimaced at his feeble response to open pain. He wanted to help, but all he said was, "Do you want anything?"

"Maybe tomorrow." Maybe she really would return tomorrow. Maybe then he could help.

Maybe Tomorrow

The sign said open, so she went in. She wasn't sure why she stood in line. She didn't want a sandwich. Order by order, she reached the counter. The man behind it welcomed her and smiled and waited for her order. He looked nice, she thought. He doesn't deserve this.

"You're not Stopsky's," she said. "You'll never be Stopsky's." Rage and loss mingled in her voice. She hunched out of line and shouldered out the door while the man stood, dumbfounded.

Outside in the crisp air, she walked. After the third time around the block, she stood and stared at the black awning. The name of the old restaurant was still visible in faint outline behind the new name plastered over it.

Inside, the line had been served. Through the large window, she could see the man behind the counter watching her.

She walked inside and, after a pause as the door swung shut, up to the counter.

"Can I help you?" he asked. He didn't smile this time.

"I'm angry." She couldn't look up from the counter. "But it's not your fault. I'm sorry."

"Okay," he said. "Do you want anything?"

"Maybe tomorrow," she said, on her way out.

Acknowledged Victory

I am a hedge. My job is to mark a boundary and create privacy. I am small now, which is why this boy is able to see over me. I tell him he must not look over me, but he doesn’t understand twigwiggle. He stands watching the family on my other side. As a fast-growing hedge, soon he cannot see over me. My relief doesn’t last. Instead, he squirms through me to play with the girl next door. My best growths don’t stop him.

After two summers, he shoots up like a bamboo and he can see over me again! I reach up, but to no avail. He spends hours talking with a girl over my growths, mocking me.

More summers pass, and he stops growing. But I don’t, and soon I again block his sight. He just finds another gap in my growths, and he sits there with the neighbor, talking. No doubt mocking my failure.

But I continue to grow and thicken, and soon I am sure no one can see over me or crawl through me.The boy acknowledges my victory; he drives away with the girl, in a car that clanks with cans tied to it.

Four-Hour Window

"Refrigerator delivery," said the strong-looking young man. "Mr. Arthur?" Mr. Arthur, first name Arthur, looked from his front door to where his brand-new refrigerator stood. "Are you joking?" he said.

They established that the delivery man was not joking, that he did not remember arriving and delivering a refrigerator, and that the delivery man could not go away without completing his delivery.

Resigned, Arthur Arthur let the delivery man install the second new fridge and remove the first new fridge.

As the truck disappeared around the corner, the truck appeared around the opposite corner. It parked in front of his house. This time Arthur kept both fridges.

He refused to answer the door the next time, and the delivery man left the fridge in his yard. Next, Arthur lied about his identity. The delivery man, still without memory of prior deliveries, didn't believe him, and fridge number five replaced number four in Mr. Arthur's yard.

Fed up, Arthur left. Within five minutes, he got a phone call: Being absent when the delivery truck arrived within the scheduled four-hour window, they would reschedule the delivery and charge him a convenience fee.

When Arthur got home, he had no fridge at all.

The Bright Star of Maine Law

Two villains did their work in shadows long and deep. One, tall and fat, was hauling in nets from an ocean lapping against the rocky shore like a parched man. On that moonless night, the water was dark as their purpose. The darkness hid the other's ugly face, standing to one side. "You're sure this'll be worth it," Tall and Fat growled.

"Oh, yeah," said Ugly. "This'll be a good haul."

"Help me, yeah?"

"Nope," said Ugly. "You're the hauler." A cocking gun menaced the night. "I'm the danger."

"Fine," grumbled TF.

"It's okay," said a new voice, smooth as butter, "I'll help." Ugly shattered the night's calm with gunshots. Powder in the air, he shook a flashlight into life and revealed a heavy coat and hat slumped against a tree.

"Got 'im," said Ugly, turning to TF. In the flashlight's beam, the figure stood.

"Not so fast." The clothes fell, revealing a reddish-brown carapace, several antennae, and a shining sheriff's star.

"Lobstar!" shouted TF, dropping his net and raising his hands.

"I'm not going back!" cried Ugly. He raised his gun, but Lobstar caught it in his unyielding pincer.

"Nice try, boys, but I'm not fishing catch and release."

So I Shot Him

It was only afterward that I realized what I’d done. All the goading, the lies, the plots and schemes, led to this moment. Had he wanted this? Him, gasping out his last, pink breath through ruined lungs; me, standing over him with the murder weapon, barrel hot, fingerprints guaranteed. Did he hate me that much?

A distant siren sounded on the edge of my hearing, just as my eyes picked out the first lightening of the sky with coming dawn. And I ran. I ran all of two steps. I don’t know if he let out a death rattle or a rasping giggle, but it stopped me. He wanted this. Me on the run, with nothing, scared every second of my remaining, probably-short life.

He’d already won. Life as I knew it was over—friends, family, resources. Gone. I’d already lost. Did that mean I was going to let him shoot the moon?

No. Fucking. Way.

I put the gun down, sat on the floor, and listened to the sirens get louder while I watched the sun come up.

A Screaming Gentleman

One day, this short, balding man in a suit walks up to me and starts to scream. No warning, no reason, just a piercing wail right in my ear. And nothing I say or do gets him to stop. He barely pauses for breath. People start to look at us funny, so I leave the cafe. My lunch break was ending anyway. Well, he follows me to my building, and up to my floor. At this point, everyone’s looking, asking if we need help, shouting at us to shut up. I get my boss to call the cops, and I go outside to wait. He right beside me, screaming, the whole time.

Cops arrive and pull us apart, and he shuts right up. I can’t make out his statement while I’m giving mine, but he sounds reasonable. The cops tell us to stop and leave. Then, he’s screaming in my ear again. So the cops come back and haul him away

Next day, my voice mail is full of screaming. When I get home, it's there, too.

Two restraining orders and a call-block later, he’s reduced to sending letters, just “AaaaaAAAAaaAAaa.” I keep them. There’s something charming about his determination.