Short Story For You
I wrote a short story while working. Here it is for your eyes and brain to enjoy.
Stanley just turned 39. His best years are behind him, he’s been told so many times today, sometimes followed by laughter, sometimes not. Statistically, most of his years are behind him now, he thinks wryly. Off from work, he drives the speed limit on I-5, closing his eyes now and then to think of birthdays past, and because after 12 years he can drive the same 20 mile stretch blind. He briefly wonders if he cannot, if the traffic flows and ebbs and exits have not in fact been scarred into his muscle memory, if tomorrow the newspapers may mention the brand of car he was driving followed by his name and age, but the thrill is brief and impotent. Stanley is this patch of interstate at 7:30am and 5:00pm, and he has been it for a dozen years. A nice, even dozen. Except for one month 2 years ago, when a roadside accident forced a total shut-down for construction. Only 1 dead, but that detour was a real barn-burner.
Because it is Stanley’s birthday, he is going to get ice cream, a treat just for him. There was a small celebration at work, but no one remembered the ice cream, and there were no bowls even if someone had remembered. Not that it was a bad office party. There have always been worse. An optimist, Stanley considers 7 out of 13 people from the floor showing up a majority success. Stanley even knew almost half of them, and the rest seemed to like the cake at least. Vanilla may not be anyone’s first choice, but Stanley knows it to be a safe bet. No one’s allergic to vanilla. It might have been a nicer time if everyone had not insisted on joking about how close he is to 40. He isn’t 40, he’s only just turned 39. Stanley knows he’s over the hill, but most days he doesn’t feel it. Just yesterday in the shower he noticed he has new hairs growing on the backs of his fingers. Hair is always a sign of vitality. Stanley remembers his father at 40, because he can’t remember the man at 39. Sure, he died at 45, but they didn’t know as much about cholesterol then, and Stanley has a gym membership that he plans to start using once work slows down, which is bound to happen at some point. And anyways, 5 more years is more than enough time for anyone, it’s nothing to be sad about. 6 years, Stanley corrects himself.
A pink Miata drifts into Stanley’s view, cutting him off. Without signaling, he notices. Anger begins to rise, but Stanley is quick to quell his feelings. Nothing is worth being upset over. And besides, until he gets to that gym, he knows he should be worrying about his blood pressure. His regular visits to the doctor have assured him little is more important. Maybe the Miata has someplace important to be, and needs precedence over Stanley. He doesn’t mind, he tells himself. Baskin Robbins is only 6 exits anyway now anyhow.
Then, Stanley’s cell phone drones out the default text message ringtone, vibrating pointlessly. Stanley would’ve liked to change it, but his cell phone was one of few that did not have a Fur Elise option, and he didn’t care for any of the other 4 tones, not even La Cucaracha. Stanley gradually pulls to the side of the road so he can check the message.
It’s Jenny. Stanley’s breath catches for a moment, until he remembers about his blood pressure. He imagines some people would have something to say about his cautiousness, paranoia they would call it, but what do imaginary people know, especially about personal health. What does Jenny want?, Stanley allows himself to wonder. She hasn’t broken up with Darryl, certainly. Of course she hasn’t. This, Stanley must not permit himself to wonder. But…, he thinks, opening the cracked cell phone cover with 2 hands, like a man proposing to himself.
Stanley’s hope is only masturbatory, he finds. Jenny needs more money for Darryl’s dental work. “The Process” has added yet another operation to the bill Stanley has found himself footing since he was told Darryl needed a cleaning. Then it was a whitening, and then caps for the teeth Jenny thought just weren’t pulling their weight. Then it was braces, which Stanley thought a bit excessive since after all it was his savings account, and they didn’t even use the orthodontist he suggested, and anyway when he first found Darry and Jenny together one of his first impressions was Darryl’s calming smile while he explained everything. But Jenny did point out that there was no need for Stanley to hoard his money, since now he was only saving for one, and he didn’t go on trips besides. Now “The Process”, as she called it, involved getting the previous caps removed, since they are interfering with the braces. Stanley notes that Jenny makes great economy of the 100 character text message limit, and texts back “k” hoping to emulate her efficiency, and perhaps even to impress.
He eases the car back into his lane, which is easy because there is little traffic going his way. He would really like that ice cream now. He tells himself he is going to enjoy it, just for him. Maybe even 2 scoops this year, though Stanley knows he can’t finish it, not alone. But it is his birthday. And he just knows this year he will start using that gym membership. So what if his hairline is thinning, as well as his dating pool. A healthy body, Stanley knows, can do a lot for a man. Darryl goes to that gym, maybe he can ask him for pointers, even. Stanley knows paying for the operations may not be enough to convince Jenny to come back, but maybe if she sees him trying to improve his appearance it’ll be enough for her to consider. And prudently, he’s not waiting until he’s 40.
Stanley turns the radio on for company. The dial is stuck on the Mexican hip-hop station, and by routine he turns down the volume. He doesn’t much care for rap music, nor does he speak Spanish, but with the sound low he finds the white noise comforting. His calm is interrupted by radio blasts of fuzzy shrieks, high-pitched enough to bother him even with little volume. Knowing his radio prone to electronic interference, Stanley sighs and switches it off. Only 2 exits left anyways now.
Pulling into the Baskin-Robbins parking lot, Stanley begins to smile again. In his hurry, he almost locks his keys in the car, but catches himself in time, and is then forced to unlock the car anyway to grab the wallet he forgot on his seat. Walking inside, he tries to remember the flavors without looking at the display. Cookie Dough, Mint Chocolate Chip, one of those Cheesecake flavors. Those are the easy ones. Stanley blanks. How long has it been? Could it be a year? But Stanley didn’t go for his last birthday, too tired. He finally looks at the stickers. Chocolate Mousse. Rainbow Sherbert. Cookies and Cream. Shooting Star.
Stanley calls the clerk over, and orders the Mint Chocolate Chip. The worker asks if he would like another flavor, but Stanley decides there is no sense in wasting ice cream, knowing he can’t finish it by himself. The worker grabs a scoop and begins scraping the ice cream, then frowns. There isn’t enough left in the freezer for a full scoop, but the clerk tells Stanley he’ll give him another flavor free if he’d like. Stanley retraces his steps along the counter and notices the Shooting Star again, his eyes drawn to the dark colors. He reads the ingredients. Pop Rocks? He can barely remember the last time he had them, although the feeling is strong. He used to love the sensation. He asks for the Shooting Star, and this time in a waffle cone, another happy childhood memory. Stanley believes he can even see the clerk smiling as the man puts the last Mint Chocolate Chip into the bottom of the cone, and tops it with a perfect globe of the Shooting Star. The cone is handed to the cashier and Stanley pays, noticing with some dismay that he is charged for two scoops, but it is not enough to dampen his mood.
Spirit high for the first time in too long, Stanley walks with a leisurely gait back to his car, inspecting his new prize. Some may consider the bright green and dark blues and whites and reds of his ice cream an ugly and off-putting combination, but Stanley finds the colors exciting, and intense. Absorbed within the ice cream, he fails to notice a crack in the sidewalk and missteps.
He trips, and the perfect globe of Shooting Star atop his cone flies away from him. It lands in front of a mother and son, walking from their van parked in the space next to Stanley’s. Time and space are paused to him in this moment, almost comical, the only noise from his throat swallowing, again and again. Slowly time returns, relativistic, as if Stanley had entered the speed of light, and was now descending. His gaze moved carefully, smoothly up from the fallen ice cream to the son, and then to the mother. The mother smiles empathetically, hands on her son’s shoulders. He looks again at the boy. Stanley is expecting compassion, a child’s powerful and shaking reaction to loss, and yes, to ice cream. Maybe the boy likes Pop Rocks, as Stanley once did. But there is nothing. Dark, dull eyes stare back at him from the child, as if challenging him, the face a blank and soft slate from which no feeling is given.
Stanley sits down on the asphalt, his legs collapsing under him. The mother and son continue to stand where they are, obligated by discomfort to remain. Stanley puts what’s left of his cone on the ground and thinks of Jenny. She would’ve comforted him right now. She would have chided him for his behavior later, but she would’ve comforted him at this moment. His cell phone rings.
It’s Jenny. Another text message. He opens the phone and notices the mother and son start to move until he looks up and they stop. Jenny hates how she has to keep bothering him, but Darryl’s teeth need to be re-enameled after all these operations.
Stanley hates how Jenny never calls when asking for money. He really, really hates it. He sees the boy’s eyes, still staring at him, daring him to do something.
Stanley was in the newspaper the next day.
Stanley just turned 39. His best years are behind him, he’s been told so many times today, sometimes followed by laughter, sometimes not. Statistically, most of his years are behind him now, he thinks wryly. Off from work, he drives the speed limit on I-5, closing his eyes now and then to think of birthdays past, and because after 12 years he can drive the same 20 mile stretch blind. He briefly wonders if he cannot, if the traffic flows and ebbs and exits have not in fact been scarred into his muscle memory, if tomorrow the newspapers may mention the brand of car he was driving followed by his name and age, but the thrill is brief and impotent. Stanley is this patch of interstate at 7:30am and 5:00pm, and he has been it for a dozen years. A nice, even dozen. Except for one month 2 years ago, when a roadside accident forced a total shut-down for construction. Only 1 dead, but that detour was a real barn-burner.
Because it is Stanley’s birthday, he is going to get ice cream, a treat just for him. There was a small celebration at work, but no one remembered the ice cream, and there were no bowls even if someone had remembered. Not that it was a bad office party. There have always been worse. An optimist, Stanley considers 7 out of 13 people from the floor showing up a majority success. Stanley even knew almost half of them, and the rest seemed to like the cake at least. Vanilla may not be anyone’s first choice, but Stanley knows it to be a safe bet. No one’s allergic to vanilla. It might have been a nicer time if everyone had not insisted on joking about how close he is to 40. He isn’t 40, he’s only just turned 39. Stanley knows he’s over the hill, but most days he doesn’t feel it. Just yesterday in the shower he noticed he has new hairs growing on the backs of his fingers. Hair is always a sign of vitality. Stanley remembers his father at 40, because he can’t remember the man at 39. Sure, he died at 45, but they didn’t know as much about cholesterol then, and Stanley has a gym membership that he plans to start using once work slows down, which is bound to happen at some point. And anyways, 5 more years is more than enough time for anyone, it’s nothing to be sad about. 6 years, Stanley corrects himself.
A pink Miata drifts into Stanley’s view, cutting him off. Without signaling, he notices. Anger begins to rise, but Stanley is quick to quell his feelings. Nothing is worth being upset over. And besides, until he gets to that gym, he knows he should be worrying about his blood pressure. His regular visits to the doctor have assured him little is more important. Maybe the Miata has someplace important to be, and needs precedence over Stanley. He doesn’t mind, he tells himself. Baskin Robbins is only 6 exits anyway now anyhow.
Then, Stanley’s cell phone drones out the default text message ringtone, vibrating pointlessly. Stanley would’ve liked to change it, but his cell phone was one of few that did not have a Fur Elise option, and he didn’t care for any of the other 4 tones, not even La Cucaracha. Stanley gradually pulls to the side of the road so he can check the message.
It’s Jenny. Stanley’s breath catches for a moment, until he remembers about his blood pressure. He imagines some people would have something to say about his cautiousness, paranoia they would call it, but what do imaginary people know, especially about personal health. What does Jenny want?, Stanley allows himself to wonder. She hasn’t broken up with Darryl, certainly. Of course she hasn’t. This, Stanley must not permit himself to wonder. But…, he thinks, opening the cracked cell phone cover with 2 hands, like a man proposing to himself.
Stanley’s hope is only masturbatory, he finds. Jenny needs more money for Darryl’s dental work. “The Process” has added yet another operation to the bill Stanley has found himself footing since he was told Darryl needed a cleaning. Then it was a whitening, and then caps for the teeth Jenny thought just weren’t pulling their weight. Then it was braces, which Stanley thought a bit excessive since after all it was his savings account, and they didn’t even use the orthodontist he suggested, and anyway when he first found Darry and Jenny together one of his first impressions was Darryl’s calming smile while he explained everything. But Jenny did point out that there was no need for Stanley to hoard his money, since now he was only saving for one, and he didn’t go on trips besides. Now “The Process”, as she called it, involved getting the previous caps removed, since they are interfering with the braces. Stanley notes that Jenny makes great economy of the 100 character text message limit, and texts back “k” hoping to emulate her efficiency, and perhaps even to impress.
He eases the car back into his lane, which is easy because there is little traffic going his way. He would really like that ice cream now. He tells himself he is going to enjoy it, just for him. Maybe even 2 scoops this year, though Stanley knows he can’t finish it, not alone. But it is his birthday. And he just knows this year he will start using that gym membership. So what if his hairline is thinning, as well as his dating pool. A healthy body, Stanley knows, can do a lot for a man. Darryl goes to that gym, maybe he can ask him for pointers, even. Stanley knows paying for the operations may not be enough to convince Jenny to come back, but maybe if she sees him trying to improve his appearance it’ll be enough for her to consider. And prudently, he’s not waiting until he’s 40.
Stanley turns the radio on for company. The dial is stuck on the Mexican hip-hop station, and by routine he turns down the volume. He doesn’t much care for rap music, nor does he speak Spanish, but with the sound low he finds the white noise comforting. His calm is interrupted by radio blasts of fuzzy shrieks, high-pitched enough to bother him even with little volume. Knowing his radio prone to electronic interference, Stanley sighs and switches it off. Only 2 exits left anyways now.
Pulling into the Baskin-Robbins parking lot, Stanley begins to smile again. In his hurry, he almost locks his keys in the car, but catches himself in time, and is then forced to unlock the car anyway to grab the wallet he forgot on his seat. Walking inside, he tries to remember the flavors without looking at the display. Cookie Dough, Mint Chocolate Chip, one of those Cheesecake flavors. Those are the easy ones. Stanley blanks. How long has it been? Could it be a year? But Stanley didn’t go for his last birthday, too tired. He finally looks at the stickers. Chocolate Mousse. Rainbow Sherbert. Cookies and Cream. Shooting Star.
Stanley calls the clerk over, and orders the Mint Chocolate Chip. The worker asks if he would like another flavor, but Stanley decides there is no sense in wasting ice cream, knowing he can’t finish it by himself. The worker grabs a scoop and begins scraping the ice cream, then frowns. There isn’t enough left in the freezer for a full scoop, but the clerk tells Stanley he’ll give him another flavor free if he’d like. Stanley retraces his steps along the counter and notices the Shooting Star again, his eyes drawn to the dark colors. He reads the ingredients. Pop Rocks? He can barely remember the last time he had them, although the feeling is strong. He used to love the sensation. He asks for the Shooting Star, and this time in a waffle cone, another happy childhood memory. Stanley believes he can even see the clerk smiling as the man puts the last Mint Chocolate Chip into the bottom of the cone, and tops it with a perfect globe of the Shooting Star. The cone is handed to the cashier and Stanley pays, noticing with some dismay that he is charged for two scoops, but it is not enough to dampen his mood.
Spirit high for the first time in too long, Stanley walks with a leisurely gait back to his car, inspecting his new prize. Some may consider the bright green and dark blues and whites and reds of his ice cream an ugly and off-putting combination, but Stanley finds the colors exciting, and intense. Absorbed within the ice cream, he fails to notice a crack in the sidewalk and missteps.
He trips, and the perfect globe of Shooting Star atop his cone flies away from him. It lands in front of a mother and son, walking from their van parked in the space next to Stanley’s. Time and space are paused to him in this moment, almost comical, the only noise from his throat swallowing, again and again. Slowly time returns, relativistic, as if Stanley had entered the speed of light, and was now descending. His gaze moved carefully, smoothly up from the fallen ice cream to the son, and then to the mother. The mother smiles empathetically, hands on her son’s shoulders. He looks again at the boy. Stanley is expecting compassion, a child’s powerful and shaking reaction to loss, and yes, to ice cream. Maybe the boy likes Pop Rocks, as Stanley once did. But there is nothing. Dark, dull eyes stare back at him from the child, as if challenging him, the face a blank and soft slate from which no feeling is given.
Stanley sits down on the asphalt, his legs collapsing under him. The mother and son continue to stand where they are, obligated by discomfort to remain. Stanley puts what’s left of his cone on the ground and thinks of Jenny. She would’ve comforted him right now. She would have chided him for his behavior later, but she would’ve comforted him at this moment. His cell phone rings.
It’s Jenny. Another text message. He opens the phone and notices the mother and son start to move until he looks up and they stop. Jenny hates how she has to keep bothering him, but Darryl’s teeth need to be re-enameled after all these operations.
Stanley hates how Jenny never calls when asking for money. He really, really hates it. He sees the boy’s eyes, still staring at him, daring him to do something.
Stanley was in the newspaper the next day.