For the time being, since I don’t have any races going on, I’ll be using this blog to post various short stories I’ve written over the last few months. I plan on posting once a week, so come back for more if you enjoy.
Short Story #1
Why Don’t You Get a Job
She used her eyes like weapons, rolling them this way and that as he spoke. Once, years ago, they were her finest feature, bright gray with flecks of steel blue. Mesmerizing. Eyes that could hold your own for hours, it seemed. She rummaged through her mostly empty purse and began applying pink lipstick (he hated the color), the crumpled road map in her lap. She used the tiny mirror of the flipped-down sunshade.
“Can you give me an update, please?” he asked. His voice was steady but he could feel an unpleasant pulsing, surging, pressure deep in his chest. Why did she have to be so difficult? The driver drove. The passenger navigated. Pretty simple stuff. “And can you turn that light out?” he added. “I can’t see with the glare—”
“I just need it on for just a second, babe. And let’s not forget that you were the one who got home late and rushed us out the door, remember?”
He sighed and gripped the steering wheel a little harder. “It’s not like you didn’t have time to get ready before I got home,” he muttered. Rain began misting the windshield. He flipped on the wipers, which left a muddy streak directly in his line of vision. The blades were probably two or three years old. Maybe older. He squinted into the darkness and past the bright glare of oncoming vehicles as they sped down the interstate. He changed lanes to get around a white semi stenciled with Office Depot, a new brand he’d never heard of. Their little red Toyota Tercels’s engine revved furiously, tiredly, as if it was about to cough twice and let out all the air in its lungs for good. It needed an oil change. And a new belt or something. Probably an entirely new engine for all he knew.
When he’d finally passed the truck, he asked, “Are we coming up on the exit?” The windshield was a sheet of dirty water and he wanted to get off the freeway as soon as possible. There was a wreck waiting to happen down the road. He could sense it.
“I told you,” she said, in that overly pleasant tone that was anything but. “Exit 125. Grant Street, remember honey? We still have, like, five or six miles so just relax.” He was such a nervous wreck. Just about all men were. Especially the ones she had the misfortune of dating. Maybe it was a generational thing. She’d have to consider finding an older guy next time.
He felt a trickle of sweat cut down his temple. Remember, dear? Remember, honey? Remember, babe? She was always treating him like he had fucking amnesia. As if he was suffering early onset dementia as a 21-year-old.
Was there something wrong with her to still be with him when it was clear that he was a loser? None of her friends said so outright, but come on. She could sense it.
“It’s getting really difficult to see,” he said.
God, he was annoying. Always complaining about something. And always late. Always losing his damn job because he was so damn absent minded he’d show up two hours late for his shift. He claimed the absentmindedness was just part of his creative process, and not laziness. She always scoffed at this. Creative process. As if he’d come up with a hit. He’d been kicked out of every band he’d been in—the tally was up to three since they’d been together—just like he’d been fired from every burger joint, gas station, and warehouse gig he’d managed to get hired at.
She closed the sunshade and the light went out and now the inside of the Tercel was dark. The rain was coming hard and he was leaning forward, craning his neck over the steering wheel, as if those four extra inches would do any good. Four extra inches. . . She snickered to herself. He needs at least four extra. He looked over at her, his perpetual frown pulling down the sides of his mouth like an old, old man’s. God, he was a downer. Such a sniveling little dick. He was about to ask about the directions again, wasn’t he. So help her, God, if he did.
She smiled at him then looked out the side window where lighted billboards for fast food, law firms, and Marlboro ads went by at 60 miles per hour. He didn’t see her eyes roll. He felt the roll. He cleared his throat. This was as good a time as any since they were already practically at each other’s throats. She was going to turn this into a thing. She never passed up an opportunity to fight.
“I didn’t get it, if you wanted to know,” he said.
“Didn’t get what?” she asked.
“The job.”
“Which one?”
“The one at Subway.”
“Well. . . you tried, I guess. It comes down to the fact that you can’t compete with more qualified applicants.”
Applicants with high school diplomas is what she meant. It was a rare day when she didn’t bring that up. He should have been grateful just now, but the abscess of the dig at him made it all the more deafening.
“I know a smart guy like you will find something sooner or later,” she said.
“That’s the plan,” he sighed.
“Because that new amp of yours really put a dent in the budget.”
There it was. He knew it had been coming. First the knife, then the twist.
“I still don’t understand why you needed a third amp,” she scolded. “It’s not as if they’re growing on trees.”
His grip on the steering wheel was near crushing force. His greasy palms were slick with sweat and hair gel. He could feel tiny bits of the foam covering the steering wheel coming off in his hands. He was about to open his mouth—tell her to shove her high school diploma up her fat ass—but she beat him to it.
“The phone was practically ringing off the hook this afternoon with bill collectors. The car, the electricity, even the phone bill. They’re all overdue.”
“I know that.”
“They’re going to take the car back if we don’t come up with the dinero.”
“I. . . know. . . that,” he said more slowly. What she failed to mention was the new skirt she was wearing, and the $25 she’d spent the previous weekend on drinks with her gaggle of bitch friends. She was the one with expensive tastes, not him. Besides, the amp was a work expense.
“I’m doing everything I can, babe,” he said.
“I know you are. But we can’t afford you sitting around on the couch for much longer.”
“Excuse me? I’ve been out there busting my ass searching for—”
“Sorry, sorry!” she said. “I know you’re trying.”
Silence passed.
“But there’s a time for trying and a time for doing,” she eventually said.
“Yeah, and there’s a time of war, a time of peace,” he mumbled.
“Wow! Now that’s a good line, babe! Did you just come up with that?”
He could feel her sneering at him, practically burning a hole in the side of his face with those evil, sarcastic eyes. At least he had a dream. Her singular goal seemed to revolve around tearing him down. It must be easy doing nothing at all. God, he had to lose this damn chick. He glanced at his white knuckles ringing the steering wheel and imagined them around her neck in the worst kind of way.
She sank back into her seat, fiddling with a bent red-and-white-striped Burger King straw left on the floor from an eon ago. The problem with guys like him was the gulf between his ability and his pride. He thought that if he could stay home all day screwing around with his toys, while she was out working, he’d magically come up with a hit (not to mention a band) and make it big. He was an average guitar player at best, and his lyrics were a step up from dogshit. Barely. But the real problem was his voice. It had allegedly been decent in high school (before he dropped out), but it had since taken on a whiny, shaky pitch, as if it were unsure of itself. Someone like him had no shot in the music industry. She knew it. His own parents knew it. They’d cut him off 10 months ago (hence the bill collectors), his own mom telling him that free rides don’t just come along every day. If she hadn’t started babysitting they’d be out on the street by now. Babysitting as a 21-year-old was a major blow to her own pride, especially when she’d delayed college—she’d gotten accepted at half a dozen good state schools—to be with this loser. She couldn’t stomach babysitting much longer. That much was obvious. I won’t pay ya forever, babe.
“The turn is coming up,” she said. You fucking dick, she added in her head.
“Okay.” You bitch.
“What band are we seeing again?” she asked. “Some friend of Dexter’s?”
“No, it is Dexter’s band. They just changed their name.”
“Oh. Them again.” She rolled her eyes.
“They’re a big deal now.”
“They made it without you?”
“I’ve got an idea. How about you go fu—”
“Sorry, just teasing, babe! They were Manic something a few years ago when we saw them last? What are they called now?”
“Offspring.”
“Weird name. But I kinda like it.”
Silence passed between them as the rain hammered the windshield and the roaring rush of a car’s wet tires went by on their right.
“Oh, honey?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“You just missed the turn.”
KENNETT PETERSON 