Try Again - A story from The Writings' fiction department

Skidding rubber left a black trail on the asphalt as the rickety old pickup - the type one sees rolling down the road and wonders how in the world it maintains forward motion - slid to a stop. With the four wheels of the 1986 model now slightly askew to the highway's tidy parallel lines, the skid marks looked a bit like a child's cute attempt at showing of his skills with a black crayon. The road art, however, wasn't what drew the curse from the driver's lips.

"Dammit," Glenn said, rubbing at his chin with his right hand. "What are we 'posed to do now?"

"Maybe we can just keep going," Doc said from the passenger seat. "Just zip right by and pretend we didn't see it."

Glenn's eyes became tight slits, like the coin slots on a Coke machine, as he looked at his friend sitting shotgun. His mother had taught him to read 42 years earlier and - thought he was certainly no professor now - he'd had some education since that point. He knew this was not the type of thing you just go and ignore. His face, wrinkled from years long passed and weary from the hours they had already been on the road, turned red, like a home sporting the first coat of a new paint job.

"Keep going? Whaddaya mean, keep going?" Glenn's face shook back and forth to emphasize the close of each sentence. Combined with he crimson mask he wore, it made it appear that his head might actually explode. "Seems'ta me that things are pretty clear; we can't go not further. Seems'ta me that you were hollerin' 'Stop! Stop! Stop!' just the same as I was cussin' when we saw that from back down the road."

Doc, feeling like the time he had told Glenn that he thought the designated hitter was a bad addition to baseball, since it removed a lot of the managerial strategy from the game, attached his eyes firmly to what was left of the truck's floormat. Confrontation wasn't his thing. It was much easier to roll through life being agreeable. There were a lot more smiles that way. He was wrong about the DH, and he was probably wrong now.

But what if he wasn't? The thought bounced in his mind like a bunt off the top of home plate. His eyes still anchored to the floor mat. The pickup was silent, except for Conway Twitty's voice echoing from the radio speakers.

"What I mean is, what if we ain't reading that sign right? What if it don't really mean, 'Hey, stop here in the middle of the road.' I mean, the road keeps going, so why can't we?"

As the words escaped Doc's lips, the second coat of paint seemed to cover Glenn's face. "Do you think I'm an idiot or something? I know what it says and I know we can't go no further." Conway Twitty was no longer audible, as Glenn's diatribe boosted volume as he spoke. If there truly was an 11 on a volume dial somewhere, it may have been in Glenn's throat.

"You're probably right," Doc said, still studying the floor mat's tattered edges.

"I am right," Glenn said, cooling back down. Conway's lyrics gave way to those of Hank Williams as Glenn whipped the balding wheels in a U and headed back in the direction they had come from. As they sped back down the highway, a cloud of exhaust swept past the sight that had brought all to a stop in the first place.

The sign read: DO NOT PASS.



Today's moral: Always keep an open mind, and remember that misinterpretation can keep you from getting anywhere.

Bonus moral: Though paint chips may sound appetizing - perhaps even delicious - one should do all they can to avoid consumption.

A Cheesy Story

As he pulled up to the curb, the brakes on Donald's Ford Festiva squealed like a group of teenage girls at a Jonas Brothers concert. The sound, which was the result of general neglect in the area of car care (he was driving a Festiva, after all) was sickening, but Donald had no time to worry about it. He grabbed the pair of pizza boxes sitting on his passenger seat, and opened the driver's side door, vaulted out of his car, and kicked the door back shut in one fluid motion. If someone had caught this maneuver on high-speed film, it would have looked rather impressive. Again, Donald had no time to consider such things.

He gripped the boxes tightly as he sprinted across the street and up to the front door at 908 Maple Circle. The Cheezy Deluxe and the Carnivore's Delight pizzas housed in those boxes had cooled considerably since Donald had departed from The Cheese Stands Alone Pizza Shop 39 minutes earlier. There were times when Donald loathed this form of employment. This was one of them. The tips were lousy, the customers were often unfriendly, and he was constantly reminded that other people actually had lives. While peers were enjoying social evenings with friends, he was fighting traffic, contributing to the poor health of the morbidly obese, and wearing ridiculous Cheese-Stands-Alone-issued yellow attire. The outfit even included a hat with ear flaps, supposedly designed to look like a chunk of mozzarella.

While he did not always find his job horrendous, nights like this made it seem like Hell's torture chamber. The response to a late pizza delivery nearly always followed the same formula. After a ring of the doorbell or knock on the door, an individual sporting a scowl would slowly open the door. A smartass remark, of the "Hey, you guys realized my order wasn't a prank call," would then be added to the equation. Donald would apologize. More "hilarious" quips would follow, with others that had also been waiting for their pizza dinner yukking it up. Donald would apologize again. The customer would remark that they shouldn't pay at all. Then they would pay, but stiff Donald on the tip. He wondered if just dropping the pizzas and driving off, never to be seen in town again, would be a better option.

-----

This delivery should not have been late at all. Donald had done his job, driving to the address he had been given. Unfortunately, that address was not accurate on this occasion. Twenty minutes earlier, just as he was pulling up to an addressed he assumed was correct, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Checking his caller ID, he noticed it was Alan, another Cheese employee. He flipped his phone open, but before his brain could process the "What's up" he intended to utter, he heard, "Don't yell at me."

Great.

"Okay. What am I not yelling at you for, Alan."

"You're driving to 908 Maple, right?"

"Yes. In fact, I can see in the front window right now. There's a hefty guy sitting on the couch. I wonder if both pizzas are for him."

"I'm going to say no, Donald. See I wrote down 908 Maple Street, but the order actually goes to 908 Maple circle."

Donald had learned long ago that if the only replies he could think of involved words he had first learned from Joe Pesci movies, he shouldn't say anything. He clamped his phone shut instead. For some reason, whoever had mapped out New Boston originally had put Maple Circle on the opposite side of town of Maple Street. He was furious. This delivery would be extremely late, and it was no fault of his.

-----

The late delivery interaction played out just as Donald had expected. As the door shut in his face, he had no pizzas, no tip, and no dignity. As he turned to go back to his car, his mind was flooded with thoughts of his job and his frustration with it. When he made mistakes, he continually heard about it. When the mistakes were not his own, he still often received blame. He had no future with the job. Nowhere to go. What the hell was he doing?

By the time he got to the street, Donald was mumbling with his head down. "I should just quit," He muttered to himself. "Why should I keep wasting my time in this stupid-"

-----

Donald woke up confused, with headache so severe he checked to see if some sort of medieval clamps were on his temples. He was not sure what was going on, but he was certain that this rather sanitary looking room he now inhabited was not on Maple Circle.

Later on, a kind nurse whose pace of speech rivaled the guy from the old Micro Machines commercials filled him in on what had happened. The fact that she did this as she provided him with a catheter was odd, but he appreciated the story. During his rage-filled trek back to his Festiva, Donald had apparently failed to notice a pair of headlights acting as his personal spotlights. Oblivious to his surroundings, Donald had been run down by a car that had never slowed down. Once his intrusive southern neighbor had taken residence, the speed-talking nurse mentioned that the accident would have been much worse, possibly fatal, had he not been wearing head protection - the Cheese-issued cap.

Stuck in a hospital bed with a fractured hip and a bit of head trauma, Donald now had plenty of time to consider anything and everything.  It was then that he realized that his self-pity and continual worry about his work was misplaced.

His job couldn't kill him. However, getting too worked up about it could.

A lesson for those graduating

"... and so the second penguin said, 'I thought YOU were bringing the compass.'"

Tom had nailed it. His timing, his enunciation, his syllabic emphasis, they were all perfect. All that remained was the ensuing waves of laughter.

He waited for what seemed like 15 seconds, although it was no more than three. No laughs. Not even a chuckle. "Tough crowd," he thought.

Just two weeks earlier, Tom had graduated from Hatfield University with a degree in accounting. While job interviews were on the horizon and he'd soon be a professional in the field, he really had no interest in it. He had compromised. When asked what he was interested in majoring in prior to his freshman year, he chose accounting not because he liked the idea of keeping track of numbers, but because it was as far as he had read on the alphabetic list of major programs. He was a smart kid. He had graduated from high school as an honors student, despite refusing to study for any exam for more than 30 minutes. He could have been successful in any major he had selected. He chose accounting, but crunching numbers was certainly not his dream.

Tom wanted to be a comedian. He always had. As a kid, Tom absorbed all the stand-up comedy he could, from old tapes of Bill Cosby to rising comedians on Comedy Central. He memorized their routines and mimicked their actions. He grew up craving a chance to be just like them; to be in front of a crowd and have them rolling with laughter. Today, he had his audience.

His penguin material had failed miserably, but he wasn't going to fret. That wasn't his "A" stuff, after all. It was time to dig deeper into his repertoire. He transitioned into a story about two blind politicians - a democrat and a republican. Politics were always comedy gold. He knew the key to a good joke was proper build up, so he spared few details. He delved into their political backgrounds. He articulated their facial expressions as they debated. He even mentioned the shine in their shoes. He glanced at the clock as he spoke of their political views on immigration. He knew his time on stage was winding down, but this would be worth it. It was all building up to his punchline, and he could not wait to be engulfed in laughter of those in the audience. As he spoke he recognized friends and family in the crowd, even old relatives he hadn't seen in years. This was his chance to shine.

"The democrat folded his arms and said, 'Well, I don't see it that way.'"

Yahtzee. Tom could not have told the joke any better. With his eyes on the crowd he saw a few small smiles and heard a couple faint laughs. It wasn't the wall-rumbling response he had hoped for, but he said a quick thanks anyway, and left the stage with a smile and a wave.

Minutes later, as Tom sat in the parking lot on the hood of his 1984 Caprice Classic, Tom's father approached. Tom had been running his routine back through his head, trying to figure out why the crowd's response had been so timid.

"Dad, what did I do wrong?"

"Nothing, son," Tom's father said. "As you go on, you'll learn that material goes over better in some places than others and that some audiences just aren't in the mood. Nevertheless, you got a few laughs. I saw a couple youngsters that were nearly cracking up."

"Yeah," Tom replied. "I guess I connected with a few folks, anyway. Maybe the problem was the acoustics, I'm not sure they were all that great in there."

"I think you're right," Tom's father said. "Now we just have to find another opportunity for you to do your routine... This time, maybe one that isn't the open mic at your great aunt's funeral."

- - - - -

The lesson, dear readers, is no matter what your diploma says, you should never abandon your dreams.

... But you can probably leave those dreams in the car while you're at a wake. They'll be fine as long as you leave the window open a crack.

A pretty stupid story

The following story is fictional. The people and events contained within do not depict any actual person or event... This certainly isn't an attempt by the author to relay an embellished version of an event that actually occurred to him earlier today... Honestly, where do you get these ideas?

---

The light turned red.

Seconds beforehand, cars were zipping up and down the street on the southern edge of Kaw State University like worker bees looking to appease the demands of their queen. Now, the red light had brought it all to a halt. The action had stalled as if life was a game of Super Mario Bros. and someone had hit the pause button. With that, Doug crossed the street.

The sun was bright and this February day was proving unseasonably warm. It was just after lunchtime and the temperature was creeping past 60 degrees. It was an excellent day for a walk. Thus, the fact that Doug had an envelope-enclosed project he needed to take across campus seemed to be a stroke of impeccable luck.

Doug tried to take in all of the beautiful day that he could as he trekked across campus. Although the typical greenery lacked much of its "green" in the midst of winter, the campus still had a certain appeal on this day. As he walked, Doug observed students enjoying the day by having classes outdoors, rollerblading, and even rocking John Mayer riffs on acoustic guitar. Why couldn't all days be this way? The weather was the type that one usually only reads about in sappy nature poems and Doug had escaped the confines of his office. Getting out from behind his desk had been a rare situation for Doug in weeks prior.

Although he sometimes felt he was prone to some combination of rough luck and stupidity, things seemed to be in his favor on this day. He considered running off to buy a lottery ticket just as he arrived at his destination - Cottonwood Hall. Doug whisked through the glass doors at the entrance and, minding the room numbers along the way (thank goodness he had learned to count years earlier), found his way to room 111. All he had to do was deliver this envelope containing some of the morning's work and it was back to the wonder of the outdoors for the return walk to his office. Doug sidled up to the room's entrance and gave the door a rapid tri-knock.

No response.

Doug had noticed through the frosted glass of the office door's window that the room seemed to be cloaked in a darkness that would freak out most cave-dwelling creatures, but he had ignored it. Maybe the inhabitant just had severe light sensitivity...

Doug tried the doorknob.

No luck. The door was locked. Dumbfounded, Doug looked for a mail inbox around the door, but there was none to be found.

At this point, some may have said to themselves, "oh well." They would walk back to their place of business, vowing to deliver the envelope another time. (Perhaps even calling in advance to make sure the receiving party would be present for the delivery.)

Not Doug. Not today. Today, he was motivated. It was as if the spirit of the greatest mailmen to ever sort letters had delivered a priority mail message directly to the depths of his mind. The mail must get through.

Noticing that there were a couple folks in the office across the hall, Doug stepped over to ask if they might be able to pass the envelope along. Unfortunately, even though they worked just across the hall from the intended recipient, those in this office acted as if they had no idea who their neighbor was. What type of place was this? In attempt to be helpful, a young woman suggested he try slipping the envelope under the office door.

Doug glanced at the envelope in his hands. The 9x12-inch paper product was packed so full that the clasp on the back was looking a bit like the belt buckle of someone that refuses to admit they've gained some winter weight. He glanced at the crack of space between the bottom of the door and the floor. There was little clearance. If the envelope were to fit, it would be a pretty tight squeeze.

"The mail must get though." The thought echoed in his head.

Doug kneeled at the base of the door and began sliding the hefty envelope into its new residence. Piece of cake. The envelope met no resistance. It now sat in room 111 and all was well.


... Jumping to conclusions was a nasty habit, and it had worked against Doug in this case. Three-quarters of the envelope did slip through fairly uninhibited. Unfortunately, the top right corner (that's Doug's right, not the door's right... Wait, would the door have a right?) had proven problematic. With most of the envelope now resting comfortably in its darkness-bathed dwelling, one little corner sat stuck underneath the door like Augstus Gloop in the Wonka plumbing system. So much for luck.

Alas, the familiar refrain again echoed. "The mail must get through." At no point did the saying delve into detail about whether fractions of mail would suffice. He doubted it would. This envelope was going to move. Doug pressed hard on the corner of the tan envelope and pushed with the strength of four whole fingers. The power generated was enough. The envelope was forced home. At last, the mail had gotten through.

Pleased with this turn of events, Doug soon discovered that he was not free of burden yet. In sliding the fourth corner into the office, Doug's fingers had followed underneath the door. Now, those digits seemed to be doing their best imitations of the obese envelope they had previously grasped. So much for avoiding stupidity. Droplets of sweat formed on his brow as Doug thought.

The mail had gotten through, but now his fingers were stuck under this wooden door that had served as the most basic form of office security for years. The Postman's Creed had no advice for emergency action in the case of stuck digits.

Lousy mailmen.

Deciding against facing the embarrassment that might come with screaming as if the building was being engulfed in flames, Doug pulled. Hard. He preferred not to be discovered with his fingers caught under this door if the resident of the office returned soon. He pulled again. And again. Oh, the ravages of rough luck and stupidity.

Just as he was trying to figure out the least embarrassing way to explain to coworkers how he had managed to lose four fingers in a trip across campus (Rabid squirrel attack? Mugging by finger-snatchers?), the door released its kung-fu grip.

He was free.

The mail was through, he still had 10 fully operational fingers, and he was headed back outside to the spring-like weather that had taken this winter day hostage. Doug wiped sweat off his brow and took a relaxing deep breath as he stepped outside to be drenched in sunlight. Despite the hiccups in delivering the project, things were good.

Then he noticed that his fingers were bleeding.

Holiday Fiction

What follows is a fiction story that I actually began a couple years ago. Lacking direction and - quite possibly - motivation, I moved on to other exciting ways to spend my free time like seeing how many peanuts I can stack on top of each other (answer: two) and attempting to solve the universal mystery of missing socks (mission: impossible). I haven't written any fiction in a long time, so I recently set a goal of finishing the story before this Christmas.

Is it finished now? Yeah, I guess... Although I'm not sure spacing two years between writing sessions is recommended practice in the world of writing fiction. It may be a bit disjointed (but some might argue that is fitting, considering the author). If nothing else, hopefully there's at least a chuckle in it. (And if there's not, you can at least say you're "being green" by not printing it off.*)

*The Writings: We're here for the environment

--------------------------------------

“I waaaaant a Playstation 3!”

The young lad on Santa’s lap was making his case for one of the season’s uber-expensive video game systems in the most convincing way he knew. With his sandy hair sticking out everywhere like a threatened puffer fish and his nose dripping like a faulty showerhead, the youngster gradually increased the volume and pitch of each syllable of his request, leaving the long-‘e’ in “3” sounding like a weapon of sound warfare.

Darren Orfelder, a 17-year-old admittedly years removed from belief in Santa Claus or Christmas miracles, cringed at the vocal talents of the baritone-ly challenged, wannabe gamer. To Darren, Christmas meant droves of noisy, mannerless, germ-ridden children converging on one single spot, and it was a spot Darren could not avoid. After all, Darren was an elf.

Granted, he was only one of Santa’s elves in the same way that Tobey Maguire was a superhero or Daniel Radcliffe was a wizard – he got paid to dress up and pretend – but when Black Friday arrived and Santa’s Village opened, Darren’s attitude strayed far from what one might expect from an associate of jolly old St. Nicholas. A perpetual frown lingered on his mug and his eyes rolled more than the dice in an average game of Monopoly.

“Santa’s Village” was located in the midst of the Center Town Center Shopping Center, but that did not keep the migraine-inducing echo of youthful tantrums from resonating throughout the crudely built set. Darren had often mocked the puffs of cotton that passed as snow and the backdrop of Santa’s “workshop” – a structure that had been a collection of shipping boxes just weeks earlier.

“With a voice like that, the kid should be asking for an early puberty,” Darren said under his breath… at least that was the volume he intended. The wide-eyed look from “Santa” and the cold-glare from the tike’s mother told a different story.

“Okay, smile big,” Darren quickly said, pointing at the camera set up in front of the cardboard creation meant to be Santa’s North Pole sweatshop in an attempt to divert attention away from his verbal miscue. He had found that quick-witted remarks were a fine way to deal with the seemingly demonic transformation some children made when meeting Santa. “Mommy’s little angel” quickly became the spawn of something under-worldly when he-or-she had the chance to request what might be under the Christmas tree, and a well-place barb was usually a fine way to deal with such nuisances… but he usually managed to keep them to himself.

As the disgusted mother pulled her youngster off Kris Kringle’s lap, and the little hellion simply asked, “Mom, what’s pooberdy?” Darren began to wonder if he had gotten a little careless lately. It was the third time that week that he had made a parent visibly angry. Should he just suck it up and do his job? Such thoughts vanished like Frosty in the Sahara when he remembered how, two days prior, he’d told a kid dressed in a tacky sweater that he should ask for “new fashion sense for mommy.” He had quite a laugh about that one when he went home that night.

“You aren’t the real Santa,” a chubby kid who looked to be nearing a baker’s dozen of birthdays said. “The real Santa’s cheeks are rosy.” Darren drifted back from his daydreaming and simply shook his head at the little Chris Farley clone’s statement. The tubby preteen had nailed it – this was not really Santa Claus, although the lack of pinkish hue in the man’s cheeks seemed to be an odd way to justify the statement.

This Santa’s real name was Roy Howard. Roy was a retired bus driver who worked as Center Town Center’s Kris Kringle for two main reasons.

First, he had the build for it. Retirement from driving a Center Elementary bus was “strongly encouraged” by the local school board after Roy had picked up three hitchhikers while driving a busload of third graders back from the Larkville History Museum. The simple act of stopping the bus to pick up the three men who were caked with more dirt than most harvested carrots was severely frowned upon, but the fact the one of them was wearing a t-shirt reading “If you can read this, can I see your cans?” was the tipping point. In the three years since “retiring” Roy had eaten enough food to feed a small, starving nation and consumed enough alcohol to keep the Olympic Torch burning through multiple iterations of the quadrennial event. As a result, a festively plump belly hung over his belt, and also provided a respectable dinner tray when sitting down (which he definitely preferred over the strenuous nature of standing). To top off the look, Roy could grow a napkin-white beard, and he was glad to do it. Who wanted to waste time shaving anyway?

The second reason Roy held steady employment as Mr. Claus was simple. Roy’s brother-in-law, Rex Bicksley, managed Center Town Center and kept Roy employed during the holiday season as a favor to Leeann – Rex’s sister and Roy’s wife.

“All right, Santa’s got to go feed the reindeer,” Roy said gruffly as he shuffled a young pig-tailed girl off his lap. In Roy’s Santa lingo, “feed the reindeer,” meant a 15-minute break to run to the john and then puff on a cigarette. Before being employed as one of Santa’s helpers, Darren had often heard the stereotype of mall Santas and their questionable character and hygiene, but he had not seen it perpetuated in the flesh… until Roy. Naturally, Roy scratched himself in inappropriate places as he heaved himself out of Santa’s chair and waddled off in the direction of the men’s restroom.

Roy’s break meant Darren and the other elves had to keep the assembled adolescents entertained while waiting in line. Granted, some seemed perfectly at peace spinning in circles until they were dizzy or trying to figure out what exactly was up their noses, but such ideas would fade soon, just as his job satisfaction had during his first week of employment. He was in his third holiday season of “elfing”, and had reached the point where he hated each day a little more than the one before it. The only reason he kept coming back was that he really needed the holiday cash, and the idea of putting in hours physical labor at a Christmas tree farm was one Darren ranked just above having all his teeth pulled by a near-sighted dentist.

“Who wants a candy cane?” Darren yelled with the enthusiasm one might expect from someone who had been screamed at, kicked, sneezed on and mocked by an assortment of youngsters in the two hours he had already worked that day. As soon as Darren mentioned candy he was mobbed by a swarm of tiny, grubby hands reaching into his bucket for a bit of the sugar-rush inducing bits of goodness inside.

“So this is the holiday spirit?” Darren thought. Here he was, a high school junior wearing a green felt cap, fake rubber ears, and tights that would make any male question his own masculinity, all to make these kids happy and grab a few bucks on the side. In return, he got one hundred sticky hands pushing and shoving to get a crook-shaped candy stick from a tin pail, and not a single thank-

“Orfelder, a minute of your time, please.”

This was not a voice Darren was accustomed to hearing. Nor one he anticipated. As he handed his candy bucket to a fellow helper, he turned and saw Mr. Bicksley himself standing before him. A lumped formed in his throat with the speed and urgency of used car salesman’s sales pitch. He’d been face-to-face with the mall manager just three times before – all when Bicksley would annually greet the season’s crop of Santa’s Village occupants. A one-on-one powwow with the suit-adorned executive was not common. In fact, the only people Darren knew who had spoken with Mr. Bicksley during their mall employment had been seeking new employment when it came time to recall said encounters.

The lump in Darren’s throat grew.

“Orfelder,” Mr. Bicksley begin, putting his hand on Darren’s shoulder and leading him away from the crowd, “We’ve had some complaints. Granted, it’s perfectly normal to get complaints, especially when you’re dealing with kids and their parents. Unfortunately, these complaints have all had one thing in common…”

“They’re a waste of your time,” was what Darren might normally say. Alas, Darren was far from his normal mindset. He knew exactly where this conversation was going.

The lump in Darren’s throat was now so large, he felt as if a second head might come bursting through his neck. Maybe this one would know when to keep his mouth shut.

“Every complaint we’ve had lately has been focused on one employee,” Bicksley said. “They’re all complaining about you.”

Although he knew it was true, Darren’s head still hung in shame at the statement. He was devastated. He had been long convinced that he hated his job, but now, with his employment seemingly at an end, he was terrified. Sweat drizzled down from his brow and his hands shook slightly. He knew a damning sentence was coming.

“You’ve been with us for awhile, and you seem like a good kid,” Bicksley continued, “but we can’t accept this type of behavior. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to-“

“Giv’em a break, Rexy.”

Fresh from his “reindeer feeding” chores, Roy appeared out of seemingly nowhere (an impressive feat for a man his size), and joined the conversation. “The kid didn’t do anything wrong.” It seemed that Roy had overheard the entire conversation.

“Are you suggesting that telling a young child with thick glasses that he should ask for laser eye surgery is acceptable behavior from our staff?” Bicksley asked, his eyes sharp at this man who had married his sister.

“Not at all,” Roy replied, his hands resting comfortably on his sizable belly. “But why blame him for spitting out my ideas?”

Darren looked up quickly. He hadn’t said a word since Mr. Bicksley had approached him, but now he was truly speechless. This red-clad oaf who had often seemed concerned about nothing more than satisfying his craving for nicotine was taking the blame for his misbehavior.

“You’re saying you told him to say all of this?” Bicksley countered. “You realize you’re out of a job if this is true.”

“I’m as serious as Rudolph’s nasal condition.” Though it was an odd response, Roy emphasized it by flinging his hat to the Town Center floor. His days as Santa were done.

Bicksley stared at the red cap on the floor, as if reflecting on its implications. Firing Roy would not only leave them without a Santa for the rest of the day, but it could make an upcoming Christmas dinner pretty awkward. Nonetheless, he had a reputation to uphold. “That’s it, you’re gone,” Bicksley said, looking up and straightening his suit jacket. He turned and began to walk away, now talking over his shoulder. “I want the suit back by the end of the week.”

“You’ll have it long before then,” Roy replied, struggling to unbutton and remove his Santa coat. “I’m sick of this stupid thing anyway.”

While Roy focused on removing his crimson coat, Darren attempted to come to terms with what had just happened. A swarm of thoughts buzzed in his head. Finally, one became verbalized.

“What the heck are you doing?”

“These damn buttons,” Roy mumbled in reply. “I always struggle with this friggin’ coat.”

“That’s not what I mean. Why did you go and get fired for things I did?” Darren’s sense of confusion began to shift to anger. “You know you didn’t have anything to do with the stuff I said. You’ve been the jolly fat guy here for as long as I can remember, and you’re throwing it away to save my job? What’s this time of year for you if you can’t waste it wearing that suit?”

Roy’s hands quit fiddling with coat buttons. His arms dropped to his sides, and his pasty bearded face was quickly painted with a strikingly earnest look.

“The season ain’t about the suit, son. You come in every day looking like someone served you breakfast from a litter box. I understand if you get fed up with some of the highly visible elements of Christmas – the commercialization and the selfishness that can follow – but you shouldn’t get caught up thinking that’s the reason for the holiday.”

Unbelievably, Roy’s spiel was actually making sense. Up until this point, the only holiday talking points Darren had heard Roy mentioned dealt with torching gremlins, walking barefoot across shards of broken glass, and other elements drawn from movies that were loosely associated with the holiday season.

Darren glanced around the mall. He no longer saw screaming children with clammy hands or their grouchy parents looking to push down others to get their way. Instead, he saw families enjoying their time together. He saw people holding doors open for others and helping with dropped shopping bags.

He looked back to Roy to express his appreciation, but Roy was gone. On the floor, next to his cap laid Roy’s Santa coat, all buttons finally undone. A few feet down the hall sat one black leather boot, it’s large buckle unlatched. A few feet further away lay the other. It seemed that Roy hadn’t lied about returning the suit. Darren cringed at the thought of Roy walking the mall in his underwear. Following the scattered trail of Kringle attire, Darren noticed a figure now halfway down the corridor. It was a hefty man, trudging away, adorned in nothing but a pair of red pants, a large black belt, socks, and a raggedy undershirt.

“Thanks,” Darren yelled his direction.

Roy responded with a chuckle. “Merry Christmas,” he yelled. “Now I’ve got to work on this belt buckle.”

I'm #1

It's true, ladies and gentlemen. I'm number one.

I'm the best.

I'm the tops.

Those who speak Spanish might call me "numero uno."

Others might refer to me as "da bomb*," "the shizzle**," or "the cat's pajamas***."

*If they have time-traveled from 1997.

**If their name rhymes with "doop snog."

***If they are... trying to start a small business where they sell feline sleepwear.

Please don't jump to the conclusion that I've begun sailing in the great ship of narcissism (especially because it doesn't catch much wind with mirrors used as sails), I'm simply speaking the truth.

Don't believe me? Check this out.

That's right, a simple Google search for my name along with the word "fool" lists this very blog as the top result. Thus, it's clear that in the all-seeing eyes of Mr. Google (as far as I know, he has not earned his doctorate), I am the most foolish of all Derek Larsons.

I'm currently in the process of adding this to my resume.

Granted, some (including Google) may say that the listings of search results should not be used as any sort of scientific measuring stick or ranking system (or cough suppressant, but that seems obvious), but that sounds like the talk of those in the corporate world trying to keep me from taking my rightful spot as the most foolish of all those who share my name. Like King Arthur receiving Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake or the most rotund of all the Lost Boys, Thud Butt, receiving leadership responsibilities from Peter Pan at the end of Hook, I have earned this title and will not take it lightly.

Now that I know where I stand in relation to all others that don my name as if they've raided my personality, it seems natural to wonder what others are doing with my 11-letter moniker that begins with 'd.'

Google (an anagram for "ego log"... somewhat fitting) brings forth information on several Derek Larsons - most of whom I'm 98.9-percent sure are not me. At the top list is an assistant professor of history and environmental studies. I do not have a business card listing such as my form of employment (and this guy has a beard, while I could not even grow one if Abe Lincoln and Grizzly Adams were offering me membership in the Benevolent Order of the Folically Rich Faces), therefore I can conclude that this DL and I are not the same person.

Using the logic of this blog, the fact that he is atop the search listings for "Derek Larson" must mean he is the most important of all DLs. Is this a shot to the ego? For some, possibly.

For me, no.

After all, if you're a single 20-something who writes endlessly about trivial matters, odds are your ego has been beaten down to a nearly unrecognizable point through the years. Sadly, mine has been on life support since the days when I enjoyed chicken patties (on buns!) in the elementary school cafeteria (/old gym).

But enough about me... lets talk about people who share a name with me. There's a Derek Larson that is a web designer. There is another that is a conceptual artist. There's even one who has put himself out there in the world of YouTube. (Please note: not all who sport my name condone combining fire with flatulence. Play smart, kids.)

No matter what these folks are doing, even if they're crafting canoes out of limestone, one fact remains: there may be 8,510 search results for "Derek Larson," but there's only one atop the list of "Derek Larson" + "fool."

I'm #1.

Facade fiction story...

I don't exactly remember what facade means in reference to fiction stories, but since when is college about learning things...



What a day! What a freaking day! I warned my parents it would be like this, but did they listen? Nooooo. “You’ll be just fine,” they said. “You’ll make new friends just like that,” they said. Yeah, thanks Mom and Dad! I sure have made friends – friends that like to express their fondness for me by punching me in the chest or tripping me as I walk down the stairs with my arms full of books.
Both of the aforementioned events had already occurred, and it wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet. At least I don’t think. I couldn’t exactly see real well inside my locker. Don’t get me wrong there was light. Three thin lines that come through the ventilation slits at the top. Sometimes I pretended I was a secret agent, locked into a torture device, and the light beams were little lasers, burning into my skin.
Anyway, back to my locker. It was number 110 in the south hall. If you ever walked by it, odds are that you heard someone reciting Shakespeare or the Latin alphabet. On occasion, Edgar the janitor would happen to be walking by and would let me out. All I usually had to do in return was listen to a story about schools in “his day,” – interesting stuff, but he never spoke much of their science labs or anything.
I soon found that “locker time” as Joey Rangler called it, was actually a great time to think. Joey, or “Ram” as his teammates called him, was the fullback for the football team there at Lincoln High, and had made it his personal mission to make my life a living hell. My right elbow was colored and swollen like the ripest plum in the produce aisle, thanks to Ram.
While walking down the east stairwell that morning, Ram saw a perfect opportunity to continue my initiation to the Lincon High halls. While descending the stairs, I had noticed a people staring at me. Granted, I was used to a few stares. Such things happen when you chair the both the Dungeons and Dragons Guild and the Hobbits Horde as a freshman. On this particular trek down the stairs, an abnormal number of peers seemed to be watching, though. I processed this information on my personal hard drive, or my brain in normal-speak, and calculated that my face would soon be red with embarrassment.
No sooner could I think that thought, I found myself feeling almost weightless… well for a second or so, anyway. The weight of my full 120 lbs. was soon bearing down on my elbow, and then my face. Regaining my bearings, I lifted my head from the yellow and black hallway tile to see Joey, his buzz haircut showing off a number of scars on his head, and his gap-toothed grin resembling a fatter, uglier Dave Letterman.
“Later, PSF,” he said, stepping on my Chewbacca collector’s pen as he went. “PSF” was short for private school freshman, stemming from my attending Oakville Heights Middle School the previous year. If Lincon was my hell, Oakville Heights was my heaven. A school where higher GPAs meant more friends, and more friends meant more people to analyze the director’s commentary of Star Trek IV with.
You can understand why I was disappointed when my parents decided I would attend Lincon High, a school known more for being state-runner-ups in football two years before than for anything that involved academics. I mean, many students thought the school was named after Abraham LINCOLN, never noticing the difference in spelling. They failed to do the proper research and find out that Lincon was actually named after Chester Lincon, who had sold the school to land to build on, with the only provision being they name it after him.
I know my parents weren’t trying to punish me. Oakville Heights High School and gone under the previous year because of some under-the-table deals that had gone on to get certain kids admitted to the school. Because of this, my parents became soured on private schools and decided I’d become better prepared for the “real world” going the public route.
I’d tried and tried to get people there to see things my way – wearing Jedi robes to school, offering nearly-free lessons in Elvish, even bringing cupcakes for Gene Roddenberry’s birthday. Seriously, that stuff was way more important than some pep rally or football scrimmage that I’ve been invited to. Like I wanted that stuff forced upon me. What makes them think they have a right to try to influence me like that?
Why did people insist on trying to instill their interests on others? I’d often wondered that during locker time.

Iceberg fiction story...

Iceberg is merely the story type... at no time in the following story do I describe any sort of large hunk of a frozen basic beverage threatening to sink ships or melt and flood the earth. That could have made an interesting twist, though...





“Coach, what happened out there?”
Neil Levine turned his head slightly towards the sound of the question, with his eyes digging in to the inquiring reporter. He always did this, in effort to show that he valued these post-game interviews. When he first arrived, he was deemed “not media-friendly,” and he’d spent the past few years trying to make up for it. Apparently, having a profanity-laced tirade and throwing a bottle of water at a reporter was not a good way to make a first impression. Then again, they’d lost that game, the first of his head-coaching career, by 25. The media should have known he’d be uptight.
Truth be told, he thought the media sessions were worthless blabbering, filled with the same questions every game. If they won, he’d tell what went right. If they lost, it was what went wrong. Couldn’t people tell what happened just by watching the games? This was another loss – their 14th, compared to 12 wins. He despised going into the media room after these games. Small and dark, filled with rows of stupid questions and pointless comments.
“Well,” Levine, the coach of the Southern Columbus University Mobbers said, “I thought we started out strong, and played well through the first half. They made some adjustments in the second half, and we failed to adjust to their adjustments.”
Damn, he’d just used “adjust” three times in a single sentence. He had a bad habit of being repetitive, and he hated reading his own quotes in print. It’s not like he had to try to make himself sound bad, certain reports tried hard enough to do that for him. Certain reporters who made it their mission to – Seemingly on cue, Ryan Richards spoke up. “The failure to adjust, who does the blame fall on for that?”
Levine recognized his nasally dominated voice. It sounded like he had a clothespin clipped on his oversized schnozz year-round. Richards had written a preseason column, pining for the excommunication of Levine as coach. He’d also grown adept at using Levine’s quotes out of context, at times making him seem more like a fire-spewing mythical beast than an ordinary basketball coach. Levine addressed the issue, keeping his eyes forward, ignoring Richards’ accustomed spot in the far-right seat on the front row.
“You know, blame is a heavy word,” Levine said, eyes focused on the clock straight across the room from him. “A loss in a basketball is a team effort. All players and coaches have a part in it.”
He’d answered this question in the same manner after nearly every loss he’d been through. Richards always tried to get him to say something that could be construed as controversial or hurtful towards someone else. On the plus side, Levine had answered this question so many times; he didn’t even have to think about what he was saying.
“We win as a team, we lose as a team,” Levine said.
“But would you say your talent level isn’t quite what it has been in years past?”
Damn that Richards! Now he was trying to get the coach to dog on his own players. He was trying to turn the Columbus Clipper into the freaking Los Angeles Times. Levine ran his hand through his short, graying hair. Blowing up at Richards right now would not accomplish anything positive - but it sure would feel good.
“Talent is a subjective term,” Levine began, his eyes back on the clock. The second-hand on the clock ran smooth – it didn’t tick. Levine pondered pointing that out randomly, as opposed to answering this question yet again. “I’ve had ‘talented’ teams that have won four games, and I’ve had teams with as much basketball talent as the primate cage at the zoo that have made the post-season. It’s how we mesh that talent that matters.”
“So the problem is with the coaching?”
That bastard! Now he was attacking the coach and his assistants, with the duties of “journalism” as his shield. Could someone else get a freaking question in? Or could he just throw his water bottle at Richards? He’d pegged him from 20 feet years ago – surely he could nail him from ten feet now. He still had some heat left in his right arm. Quote this, you rotten son of a-
“Again, this is an issue that will be addressed by our entire team; players and coaches alike,” Levine said. The room stood silent. So silent, the ticking of a clock on the wall could have been heard, if present.
“No more questions guys?” Levine asked. “Well if that’s it, I’ll let you go. I really appreciate you guys making it out.”

Final story for my fiction writing class...

This was the final story I wrote in my fiction writing class at K-State (it earned an A, naturally). There are some humourous elements, but looking back at it now, it seems alot like a 'chick story' (cousin of the chick flick). Nevertheless, a group member told me she read it to her sorority friends and all would be interested in meeting the author. Naturally, I didn't follow up on it... because I'm stupid. Enjoy.

Smile and tell her she looks great… smile and tell her she looks great. Doug repeated the thought through his head as he stepped out of his rusty, 1979 Caprice and headed up the sidewalk toward the house on the corner. 1836 Eppinger Street – this had to be the right place. He had already stopped by 1638 Eppinger, and he was pretty sure the shirtless, old man with the Old English bottle held in his spindly fingers was not the “sweet, cute girl” he was supposed to be set up with.
The porch step creaked as he stepped on to it and Doug jumped back at the sound. He was always easily startled when he was nervous. Not even a year before he had been on a similar blind date and let his nerves get the best of him. As he had held the screen door to that date’s home open for her, the moisture from his sweaty hands nearly saturating the wooden frame, the neighbor’s basset hound bellowed at him. Doug, his heart already pounding, flinched, letting go of the screen door. One scream (hers) and face full of screen mesh (also hers) later and Doug’s date had gotten off to a rather rocky start.
He went after the step again, fully prepared for the aching groan of the wood this time. He was not going to let his social misgivings screw up this date.
Smile and tell her she looks great… He repeated the thought as he pressed the doorbell. But what if she didn’t look great? What if she has a face like a frying pan or has her hair dyed green?
His roommate’s girlfriend had set him up on this date just a week earlier. She had said the girl was cute, but Doug had learned to be skeptical of girl’s judgments of the appearances of others of their persuasion. Oftentimes, if a girl was “cute” in girl terms, she might be radically overweight or have somewhat of a horse-face. Should he stick with his plan if that were the case? Of course he’d smile, but what about saying-
The door slowly opened, and two of the bluest eyes Doug had ever seen met his own from the opposite side of the doorway. There was no horse-face, and she was definitely not overweight. Blonde hair hung down to her shoulders, and her face had the look of a finely crafted piece of art. No blemishes, and no irregularities. This pleasant development swept Doug’s mind clean. What had he planned on saying? He wanted to try to remember, but he couldn’t just stand there and not say anything. He went with the most pressing thought in his head.
“You look great,” he said, breaking into a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, quickly glancing down while the hue of her face became red.
“So you are the one that ordered a night guaranteed to be full of awkward silences and lame attempts at small talk, right?”
She glanced back up at him, eyes bright, but lips shut tightly. Doug knew she was suppressing a smirk, maybe even trying to keep from laughing out loud. Despite his insecurities, Doug loved trying to make his dates, however few and far between they were, laugh throughout the night – as long as it was with him, not at him.
“Sorry, I guess I have the wrong place,” Doug responded. “I’m supposed to be picking up a girl that can speak.”
She gently punched him in the arm, and then held out her hand as a greeting. “I’m Laci,” she said. “And you will probably be tired of hearing me talk by the end of the night.”

Doug strained to listen to what Laci was saying as they cruised down Crimson Street, on the way to Applebee’s. His concentration troubles weren’t because he was bored by what she was saying, or because he had other things on his mind, he simply could hardly hear her over the noise his car created. His muffler was not exactly in prime condition, and Doug was in no position to shell out the money to have it fixed. He and his buddies called the car his 747, and not just because it constantly sounded like it was preparing for takeoff. In an age of shrinking, compact cars, Doug’s seemed like an elephant stuck in the gopher exhibit at the zoo.
Through the roar of the pasty-white road beast he could hear Laci saying something about her roommates. Stupid car, it could ruin everything. Sure he could mostly piece together what she was saying, but what if she asked him something particular about the conversation later on? No amount of smiling and nodding could get him through that. Then again, she was probably just rambling because she was horrified to be riding in this car.
Doug took a quick glance to his right, past the fabric drooping from the ceiling of the vehicle to the passenger seat. He expected her to be slouched down in her seat, shielding her face from any possible eyes that might steal a peek of her from outside the car. Instead, he saw Laci sitting trim and proper, gazing out the window, continuing on about her roommate hogging the bathroom. She must simply be too polite to comment on his junk-heap with wheels.
Suddenly, Laci broke away from the roommate conversation, and said, “This is such a joke,” with a giggle in her voice. There it was. The car had finally made her crack.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Doug said. Beads of sweat materialized on his brow as he prepared to explain how he had been given the car from his grandpa, and how it would break the man’s heart if he got rid of it. It wasn’t entirely true, but it was the only way he could explain the car situation without mentioning money woes.
“Why are you sorry?” Laci asked. “You can’t really keep struggling actresses from recording crappy songs about being heartbroken.”
Crappy songs? The radio – that’s what she had been talking about. She wasn’t commenting on the prehistoric vehicle after all. He quickly ran his hand through his short, brown hair, beginning at his forehead to take care of the sweat. No sweat.
“I’m just sorry you had to be witness to such an atrocity of a song in my vehicle.”

“Well, it’s not going to be past your curfew by the time we get seated, will it?” Doug asked with a kidding tone on the surface that was masking a stomach bubbling with anxiety.
“It’ll probably be a 20-to-30 minute wait,” the hostess had said. Funny how restaurant folk always seemed to operate on a different time system than everyone else. It was like they condensed every two minutes into a single one. Applebee’s seemed to be especially bad about this.
“It’s fine,” Laci said, smiling. “There’s probably more atmosphere out here, anyway.”
They were seated on a bench just inside the entrance, across from a family of six – four kids, the oldest no older than ten, and two parents looking like dejected occupants of cell block D who had just been denied parole.
Doug and Laci watched as a dirty-blonde haired boy gave his younger sister an Indian burn, and the young girl fell crying, face-first into her mother’s lap.
“Don’t you just love kids?” Laci asked, eyes remaining on the action before them.
Was this a test? What type of answer did she want? Here came the sweat again. Of course he’d say yes, but how should he do it? If he was too enthusiastic, she might think he was looking to procreate right away, but a simple nod could send an apathetic message. What if it was just a rhetorical question? How could such a simply question become so-
“Williams, party of two.” The stocky, redheaded waitress had ended the stress. Doug glanced down at his silver Rolex. 8:17 p.m. They had arrived at 7:36. The time-bending phenomenon of the restaurant world was definitely in effect. He knew his watch wasn’t wrong. Granted, it wasn’t a real Rolex. It was a knockoff he’d bought from a sidewalk vendor in New York when he’d been there on a class trip. It kept good time, though… and it looked good. Laci had even said so.
He’d never met, or even talked to Laci before tonight. It was the blindest of blind dates.
“That’s us, shall we?” Doug asked, getting up from his spot on the bench in the waiting-to-be-seated area and motioning for Laci to walk ahead of him.
“Absolutely,” she responded, picking up her purse and running her delicate, finely manicured hands down the sides of her skirt as she stood. The skirt wasn’t short, but it wasn’t ultra-conservative either. Doug liked the happy medium.
As they approached their table, the booth in the far corner, Doug thought back to their conversation when he had arrived to pick her up. So far, neither of them had been correct. Despite his raging anxiety, conversation had been flowing smoothly, and he had really enjoyed listening to her. Her voice seemed to be just a few decibels above soft – but, other than over the roar of Caprice the beast, he never had to strain to hear her – and she had an adorable giggle. Doug remained focused on getting her to laugh.

“Order anything you want. Price is not an object,” Doug told her. He was lying, of course. Price was definitely an object for any college student, let alone one that earned minimum wage working in the mail center on campus. He knew that tonight would cause problems with his budgeting, but he told himself that having a good date would be worth eating tuna sandwiches for lunch a few more times a week. Then again, if she went with a steak he might have to forfeit his cable.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t eat much.”
Score another one for Laci. Doug pictured a giant checklist of positives in his mind. Cute… check. Good sense of humor… check. Doesn’t hate my car… check. Won’t put me in the poorhouse… check. Times were good.
“So, besides going to school, what do you do?” Laci asked, peering at the salads on her menu.
D’oh! Doug wanted to avoid any conversation involving his feeble-paying job. He had only dated three girls in his four years in school, and his minimal funds had been at least part of the reason that two of the relationships hadn’t worked out. He couldn’t just completely ignore the question, could he? No, he had to tell her something. His heart kicked into a higher gear.
He panned the Applebee’s wall, looking for inspiration. A youth hockey coach? A mobster? An international man of mystery? Damn that wall and the stupid movie memorabilia on it.
He had to think of something. Something impressive, but still believable. “I’m a lawyer, I try mostly civil suits.” Impressive, yes. Believable… not exactly. Doug immediately cringed when he realized what he had just said.
“A part-time lawyer?” Laci asked, examining his eyes deeply. It was like she was trying to see right through his lying ways. “You must manage your time really well.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not the truth. I really-“
“Don’t worry about it,” Laci said, her peering eyes turning soft as her sweet smile spread slowly. “Whatever you really do, I’m sure it’s cool. I’m the one that should be embarrassed about their job.”
Doug stared at a single bubble in his Pepsi as it floated up to the top of his glass. He was running the previous statement back through his head, trying to detect any sarcasm. It had seemed sincere, but surely someone who was so personable could not have any sort of embarrassing job. He hadn’t really put any thought into what she might do. He’d just assumed she worked at one of those trendy clothing stores or brought in big tips as a waitress somewhere.
The bubble had attached itself to an ice cube. He ran Laci’s words repeatedly through his head. His eyes held onto the bubble intently, as if he was trying to pop it with his mind.
“Doug, are you all right?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, just fine,” Doug said, glancing back up to Laci, deciding he had to know the truth. “So what can you possibly do that’s so horrible?”
Laci sipped her tea, her eyes immediately glancing down at her straw when she heard the question. She took the straw in her fingers, nimbly stirred her drink, and glanced around the room as she answered.
“Well,” she paused, as if she was considering whether she wanted to tell the truth. She had to be teasing him. “I bag groceries at Applemart.”
A grocery bagger? There was no way. Grocery baggers were one of just three career opportunities that Doug and his mailroom buddies felt comfortable making fun of.
As he thought about what joke he might make to call her bluff, Laci spoke again.
“It’s nothing great, but I think anyone who bases their judgment of a person on what they do to earn money for school is probably too shallow to talk to.”
Doug realized she was being truthful. Completely truthful. She wasn’t like those other girls he had dated – worrying more about what they were wearing than who they were with. She would be completely accepting of anything he said.
“I disagree with everything you just said,” Doug said, unable to keep from smiling to mask his joke. “After all, I have one of those high profile jobs you hear about. You know, the ones where you sort mail all day.”

The whole Caprice shook as Doug turned off the engine in front of Laci’s house. It had done this since Doug had begun driving it, and although he’d let it pass earlier in the night, he figured he should at least mention it now.
“You’d think some of those rust spots would fall off with all that shaking.”
“It’s fine, every car needs a little character,” Laci said, patting the dashboard.
Was this some sort of trick? Throughout the entire evening, Laci had been exposed to a number of phases of his life that made Doug’s stomach uneasy with a simple mention, and she had delightfully accepted everything. Surely this whole thing was too good to be true. He half-expected Laci to tell him he was on “Candid Camera.” Instead, he found himself walking her up to her front door.
How in the world had that just happened? Was this one of those out-of-body experiences? He’d never been bold enough to initiate such a move on any previous first date. It was practically mind-boggling.
Nevertheless, he now had much larger issues to confront. What in the world was he supposed to do when they got to the door? He ran the options through his head as his heart bounced in his chest like Evander Holyfield’s punching bag.
He could simply put out his hand for a shake. It would be a pretty safe move, and stood no chance of offending her, but it seemed too safe. Was he running for office? Who shakes hands at the end of an enjoyable evening?
Then there was the hug. The positives and negatives flew threw his head as they walked up the sidewalk to her home. It was still pretty safe, and there was nothing wrong with establishing a little body contact. Of course the hug could quickly turn sour. Too tight of a squeeze could make him seem too clingy, too loose of a grip and he would come off like a fragile grandmother.
The porch step groaned louder now that two sets of feet had bore their weight upon them. They were getting down to crunch time, and he had no idea what to do.
Leaning in for a kiss was obviously a high-risk, high-reward move. He was pretty sure she had enjoyed the night. She had laughed at his jokes, and been smiling the whole night – it seemed a kiss could be the perfect capper… or a knife to the chest. If he leaned in and received a blank stare or a turned head in return, he could probably forget any plans about a future date, or having any more confidence in the future. The denied kiss was something Doug and his friends even hesitated to joke about, it was that rough to deal with.
They stopped. The arrival at the door meant it was time to make a move. He turned towards her, and the sheer blueness of her eyes struck her once again.
“Well, thanks for putting up with me. I hope it wasn’t too painful,” Doug said, the thoughts of the moments ahead still cycling through his mind.
“Well, I thought about downing the cyanide pill in my pocket a couple times, but somehow I pulled through,” Laci said, not missing a beat.
The evening had gone too well. How could he avoid screwing it up? This final goodbye was big, and he could not afford dropping the ball.
He dropped his head quickly, trying to weigh his options one final time, but something brought an immediate halt to the whirlwind. His peripheral vision showed that her face had drawn in close to his, and a light press on his cheek confirmed his thinking.
“Anyway, thanks. You’ve got my number, don’t you?” She asked opening the door and stepping across the threshold, cocking her head slightly at an angle in mock interrogation.
Doug smiled wider than he could remember smiling before, and nodded. He declined speaking because there was only one thought in his mind. “She looks great.”