flash fiction – bendingtheneedle

Coffee, Scones, and Blue Blazer Bones

Most of us don’t get to choose the last thing we hear before dying. The grim reaper doesn’t give a shit about playlists or our affinity for the sound of waves crashing or birds singing.

The man in the blue blazer’s final breath came at 12:46 PM to the shitty sounds of stylized Jazz, and a Bluetooth-wearing mortgage lender yelling, “It’s 2008 all over again!”

With his elbows on the table and bowed head, he looked like any other Barnes and Noble Cafe customer – bewitched by books and coffee. Sure, his posture might have seemed “a little off” to the passersby, but not enough to alert the reference librarian or the pimply-faced adolescent behind the Cafe’s counter.

People don’t care about one another the way they used to. Most of us drift through our day in cell phone-induced trances, grossly unobservant of the world 3 feet beyond the nose on our faces. And so, the man in the blue blazer sat dead and unbothered for nearly eight hours (and one shift change) until a nudge from the Cafe’s manager caused him to fall and strike his head with a sickening biological splat, like a dropped bowling ball wrapped in salami.

Bill and Susie are wiping down the espresso machine when their pale, shell-shocked manager shuffles towards them.

“What’s up, boss? Are you OK?”

The question startles the manager from his stupor. He looks at Bill and says flatly, “He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?” Bill and Susie chime in unison, causing Susie to laugh and blurt out, “Jinx on you!” while pointing and smiling at Bill demurely, “You owe me a coke, dude!” – Susie’s been crushing on Bill for months and can’t figure out why he hasn’t picked up on her willingness.

Their manager raises his arm slowly and points towards the Cafe’s seating area. Bill and Susie look wide-eyed at one another and dash from behind the counter. Susie sees the man lying on his back, turns immediately on her heel, and heads towards the front of the store, yelling, “Call 911, call 911!”

“Jesus Christ, boss, what happened?”

The manager’s voice is unsure and thready, “I told him we were closing, and that he needed to complete any purchases. When he didn’t respond, I touched him on the shoulder, and he fell.” His voice rattles with panic, “He must have been dead already; I mean, he never even tried to break his fall.”

The manager falls quiet before whispering, “His lips are so blue.” Bill looks at the lifeless body in front of them, turns toward his boss, and acknowledges softly, “So fucking blue.”

“You know, he looks familiar, boss. Not as a customer, but from out there,” Bill nods over his shoulder towards the storefront windows and the world beyond. He brushes by his manager and kneels next to the body. “He’s dead for sure,” and then shockingly reaches into the man’s blazer.

The manager directs a rage-filled whisper at Bill, “What the fuck are you doing? Are you crazy? The police are on their way!”

“I know – I just want to check his driver’s license. I know this guy, boss.”

“Who gives a fuck if you know him? Leave him alone! Wait for the police, for Christ’s sake.”

The manager’s head is on a swivel, his darting eyes surveying the store for straggling customers and police. The last thing he needs is for his manager to hear about a Barnes and Noble employee mugging a dead man.

Bill opens the wallet. A folded piece of paper falls out. Without thinking, he puts it in his pocket and rummages for the dead man’s driver’s license.

Susie comes running from the front of the store, out of breath, “Betty called 911. Bill, what are you doing?”

Bill holds up the license and smiles, “Ted Diamond. 22 Fairview Lane,” before slipping it back into the card slot and sliding the wallet into the breast pocket of the blazer.

A police cruiser glides quietly into the nearly empty parking lot, splashing the storefront in blue and red lights. Car doors slam, and a few seconds later, the reference librarian directs two officers toward the Cafe.

As the officer approaches, Bill looks at Susie and shoves his hands into his pockets nervously, only to discover the piece of paper that fell from the wallet. He looks up and realizes there’s no time to put it back. His fingers draw the paper into his sweaty palm, and he squeezes tightly, digging his fingernails into it.

“I’m Officer Jacobson, and this is Officer Tyler.” Can someone tell me what happened? Bill’s boss offers an outstretched hand to the officer, “Hi, I’m Jack Bellinger, the manager. I found the gentleman about 15 minutes ago. He was sitting at a table, and I nudged him when he didn’t respond to me — then he fell off his chair. I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

There’s a commotion at the front of the store as the EMTs come rushing in. They begin chest compressions and CPR immediately, checking intermittently for breathing and a pulse. It’s not long before futility settles heavily on their shoulders.

The Cafe manager is off to the side, nodding and speaking with the officers in hushed tones. The EMTs wheel the man in the blue blazer slowly out the front of the store with no sense of urgency. His story ends officially in the parking lot of Barnes and Noble.

Bill pulls the folded and crumpled paper from his pocket.

“What’s that?” Susie whispers.

“A note. It fell out of the dead guy’s wallet when I was looking for his license – I didn’t have time to put it back.” A look of guilt and shame fell over Bill’s face.

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”

Susie puts her arm around Bill’s waist and slow-walks him to the Cafe’s kitchen. Bill brushes aside poppy seeds and crumbs from the counter, unfolds the paper, and smooths it out with both hands.

Dear Mary,

I know what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with.

A barista?

How pathetically proletarian.

It’s over. We’re done. You’re DONE!

Ted

Susie steps back slowly from the counter and stares at the back of Bill’s head, his damp, thick curls resting on his shoulders. She watches him slowly take a cigarette lighter from his pocket. In a dream-like sequence, he walks to the sink, holds the note by the corner, and lights it on fire. Then he pulls a sandwich bag of little white pills from his other pocket, empties the bag into the sink, and washes them down the drain.

Pop and the Christless Crucifix

I make my way through a dimly lit hall of walkers, wheelchairs, and medical carts to find him where I always find him – in a threadbare recliner, lightly coated with dried skin cells and broken hair follicles – hunched over the New York Times crossword in his flannel robe, pee-stained underwear, and perfectly fitted Red Sox cap – his lips moving silently to the clues:

“1 Across – Act of saving or being saved – 1 down – Environmentally friendly material.”

Dad never used to move his lips – they were always tightly creased, well-mannered, and coolly detached from the finely humming machine in his head as he attacked the puzzle on all fronts.

To Dad, the Times crossword was a trusted friend, a worthy opponent, and an intellectual fencing partner who, for years, prepared him mentally for the start of his day. It felt grossly unfair that Dad was aging so inelegantly while his opponent remained unscathed by time.

I stand invisible at the entrance of his room, just staring, not wanting to disrupt his endeavor.

When he finally looks up, he shoots me a broad smile and tips his cap in my direction before returning to the puzzle.

I enter the room, clear my throat, and get to the point of my visit.

“Dad, do you have a will?”

Without lifting his eyes or halting the motion of his pencil, he responds, “You can have it all. Just burn me down to a fine ash, then bury me in the desert. There – that’s my will. Cross it off your list.”

I sigh heavily.

With his head still bowed, he holds up his mechanical pencil and points it sharply in my direction before continuing.

“But not too deep. A few inches below the topsoil will do just fine. I want the rain to be able to get to me — muddy me up a bit.”

He lifts his head. A thin dusting of skin cells and hair follicles fall – it’s wintertime in Flannel Ville. He gives me a wink and a smile before returning to the puzzle.

“What about the family plot where Mom is?”

“What about it?”

He goes on, “In the words of the best Beatle by far, Let. It. Be. When she was alive, your mother nagged me about hogging the bed and disturbing her sleep. Trust me, she’d be fine with my desert plan.”

He returns to the puzzle, mumbling under his breath.

“6 across – Breaking down organic matter” – 2 Down – To accept without protest”

“Is any of this written down, Dad?”

He slams the folded Times on his lap, and an unwelcome whiff of urine fills my nostrils.

“Why do I need to write it down? I just told you with actual words from my mouth – Put me in the goddamn desert, a few inches deep – Easy-Peasy. You want to bring nurse Jackie in as a witness?”

There’s no Nurse Jackie, but Dad loved that show so much that he referred to all his nurses as Nurse Jackie—even the males.

“Sorry, Dad.”

He softens immediately and smiles.

“It’s OK. No worries from the weary.”

“The Times is kicking my ass today.” He tosses the newspaper onto his bed – a school of dad-DNA swims in a stream of sunlight above the bedding.

“How are things at home? How are Emma and the boys?”

“They’re good – I’ve been wanting to get the boys in for a visit – -they’ve been busy with basketball and homework.”

“Don’t worry about visits. Honestly, I don’t want them to see me like this.”

A silence settles in the room. I can hear the paint peeling and a clock ticking.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Dad, whatever you need.”

He points to the wall behind his bed.

“Get rid of that goddamn cross. It’s from the poor soul who was here before me.”

I lift the lacquered black Christless cross from its nail. The unfaded paint beneath it leaves a crucifix shroud of Turin.

In a deadpan voice, Dad stares at the wall and quotes Luke 24:6-7, “He is not there; he has risen,” and smiles sarcastically.

“Thanks, son.”

I stand Pope-like in the middle of his room, holding the crucifix, “What should I do with this?”

“Burn and bury it in the desert – he chuckles and starts to cough – a mosh pit of Dad-dust bounces enthusiastically on his shuddering shoulders. I can almost hear Cobain screaming.

Suddenly, there’s a discharge of electricity around Dad’s recliner. I look up to an intense blueish-white light pushing through the crevices on his forehead—a halo of electrified dandruff swirls above his head. A look of relief falls upon him. He winks and says warmly, “I’m just saving you the effort. Goodbye, son.”

There’s a loud pop—like a fluorescent light bulb dropped from a great height—as Dad bursts into flames like a human Hindenburg. Thin flakes of ash float in the air. Their fiery orange edges burn bright for a few seconds before self-extinguishing into dissipating wisps of smoke and settling all around me.

I drop the crucifix in stunned silence.

A nurse (followed by an elderly gentleman with a Dustbuster) enters the room. The nurse tilts her head towards her left shoulder and speaks into a small black microphone, “Mr. Smith in 103 has transitioned.” She nods sharply to the gentleman, who retrieves the crucifix and vacuums up every remnant of my father. He even vacuums Dad from my shoulders and shoes. When he finishes, the nurse checks her watch and makes a notation on her clipboard.

She hands me a piece of paper. “Your father left us these coordinates. We’re sorry for your loss. Please collect your father’s remains at the nurse’s station.” She and the orderly exit the room along the same path they entered.

I unfold the paper. Scrawled in my dad’s handwriting are the coordinates 40°40′N 117°40′W.

After a few minutes, I head to the Nurse’s Station. Dad’s been packaged neatly in a small cardboard box with the Crestwood Nursing Home logo. Someone thoughtfully taped the crucifix onto it. I pull it off and toss it in the trash on my way out the door.

I place Dad in the glove compartment and drive west to the desert.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my first book, My Paper, My Words: Rantings from a Progressive Boomer and Peeved Parent, from Amazon. And if you feel moved to write a review of the book on Amazon or elsewhere, I’d be honored.

My Paper, My Words is a collection of essays, stories, and poems that reflect the challenges of a middle-class husband and father trying to navigate a rapidly changing political, religious, and technological landscape of post-9/11 America.

Dinner in Blue State America

Bright light behind the slightly ajar door. Abstract background

The glow from the television gathers in the doorway at the end of the hall.

“I can’t believe what he just said.”

“Honey! Come listen to what the asshole just said.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

“Can someone please just get rid of this motherfucker already?”

His words crash through the door into the hallway, bouncing off the walls like a whisky-soaked drunk double-dipped in anger.

“What the fuck is wrong with this country? We fought a goddamn world war to prevent this crap from spreading. Now we’ve got this mother fucker proselytizing fascist propaganda from the goddamn motherfucking White House.”

“Honey!!!”

She grabs a beer from the fridge and takes a long, hard swig before retrieving a half-smoked pack of Winstons from the junk drawer. She started smoking again after the election.

“Yeah, I heard,” she yells towards the hall.

“But what can we do?” she whispers surrenderingly and takes a drag.

The Jesus and Mary Stain

“I’ve washed this towel twice and still can’t remove the puke stain.”

His wife Mary stands at the top of the stairs, gently shaking the unfurled towel at her husband, who sits with his back to her, hunched over his “work-from-home desk,” even though he’s been out of work for 10 months.

The vet called it megaesophagus, a condition in which the esophagus is unable to move food into the stomach efficiently, causing their aging dog to vomit frequently. His wife displayed the artistic consequence of their dog’s medical condition for her husband to see.

Planting his bare feet on the protective matt under his office chair, he spins towards his wife, her pretty, puzzled face resting atop the puke-stained towel.

He studies the stain. “Let’s change Pepsi’s name to Pollock and sell her work online.” Then, in the next breath, he squints and quips, “Hold on a second… what the hell . . . I think I see Jesus’s face in that puke stain!”

“Ha-ha, very funny”, still, she turns the towel 180 degrees, tilts her head slightly, and studies the stain.

“Our lord savior, perpetually pictured in Pepsi’s puke! — or Pollock’s puke if we decide to move ahead with the name change,” her alliterative husband continues with a self-satisfying grin.

“This could be the financial windfall we’ve been waiting for!”

“It’s a laundry version of the miracle at Lourdes… the Tide Pod that Spied God!” He slips effortlessly into one of his riffs, wagging his finger enthusiastically above his head.

“I’ll call the Vatican and local paper; you work on logistics for backyard tours.”

She chuckles, turns on her heel, and heads down the stairs.

He’s unfazed by her absence.

Once he starts ranting, it’s got to run its course, “like diarrhea,” she would often say.

“We’ll need to erect a clothesline for the bath towel shroud of Jesus!”

“Maybe by the vegetable garden in the back, in front of the doubting toms and holy basil,” he shouts while spinning back to his work desk.

Halfway down the staircase, she responds sarcastically over her shoulder, “I’ll get on that right way,” tossing the rolled-up towel into the clothes hamper at the bottom of the stairs.

Soul Vessels and Tailpipes

“Can you and the young lady step out of the car, please?”

The voice behind the mirrored shades was professional and pleasant, but the driver was reluctant to comply. The look of panic in his daughter’s eyes only hardened his hesitancy.

“I’m sorry, officer. Was I speeding?” the driver asks calmly, offering the officer his license and registration.

“Sir, I received a tip about your passenger’s medical condition. I need you and the young lady to exit the car NOW.”

“Daddy, please, don’t go,” the daughter implores her father, gripping her seatbelt tightly with both hands. Her knuckles are white, and her body visibly trembles.

“It’s OK, honey – just stay put.”

“Listen, officer. This girl is my daughter. She’s 13 years old. I’m her parent and legal guardian, and she is NOT getting out of this car.”

The officer takes a step back, draws his weapon, and points it at the father.

There’s a jarring change in tone as the officer’s jagged words erupt coarsely from his gravel-lined throat:

“Sir, this is your last warning—step out of the car NOW.”

“Jesus fucking Christ – what’s wrong with you?” the flinching father screams towards the officer, angrily throwing his license and registration out of the car window.

Worried and panicked, he turns to his daughter, who cannot speak – “Honey, you stay buckled – I’m going to talk with the officer.”

The father exits the car slowly – putting his hands above his head to show the officer he’s unarmed. The officer instructs him to turn and face the vehicle – before doing so, the father glances at the badge on the officer’s uniform – noticing the etching of four white crosses above and below the shield – the officer holsters his weapon, grabs the father by the back of the collar, and slams him onto the hood of the car before violently slapping handcuffs on him.

The father sees the horrified look on his daughter’s face; she wretches and vomits.

He is helpless.

“She was raped,” he growls at the officer who stands him up against the side of the car – “Six weeks ago, my baby girl was raped.”

“Not by the child in her womb,” the officer sneers callously.

“She’s a soul vessel now. Transporting her across state lines for reproductive care (the officer uses air quotes) is a crime.”

“You’re under arrest.”

Like a black and poisoned weed, the phrase “soul vessel” takes root in the father’s head. He had heard rumors about a network of like-minded Christian police officers across the United States working to enforce “God’s law,” especially as it pertained to unplanned pregnancies.

When he and his daughter worked out their visit to planned parenthood, they consciously mapped a backroads route, steering clear of major highways. “It’ll be safer this way,” he remembers assuring his daughter, whose biggest concern six weeks ago was getting the right cleats for soccer.

The officer places the defeated father in the back of the police cruiser and walks back to the car where the girl sits, still clutching her seatbelt. He opens the passenger door, reaches over her, and unbuckles the seatbelt, coldly instructing her to “exit the vehicle.”

The girl, expressionless, complies. When she gets out, he pushes her towards the back of the car, turns her harshly towards the trunk, and instructs her to place her hands on the vehicle.

The officer glances back at the father, wanting him to witness what comes next.

He takes out his Billy Club and tells the girl to spread her legs; while looking back towards her father, he gently taps the insides of her thighs, moving the club up towards her vagina. He leans into her, and she can feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Through the stale scent of chewing tobacco and cheap cologne – he whispers, “We’ve got to keep that bun baking, little girl – that’s all that matters now.” – she turns her head in disgust.

She sees her father’s shadowy figure behind the cruiser’s tinted glass and imagines the steel edge of his restraints cutting into his wrists as he explodes in rage at the assault taking place before him. She looks past her father and notices the cruiser’s engine is still running. The tailpipe exhaust relentlessly pushes down on a patch of withering daisies—they bend and twist, but there’s no escape.

As the officer leans away to put the cuffs on the girl, she falls to the ground. He steps aside and smirks with disdain, staring momentarily at her before extending his hand. She looks up at him and sees her broken and crumpled self in the reflection of his sunglasses. She offers up her hand, her middle finger extended. The officer grabs her wrist and pulls her to her feet.

As she rises, she notices the gun in his holster, unsecured—she grabs it and is surprised at how easily it comes out. She takes one step back, points the gun at the officer, and (without hesitation) pulls the trigger.

The bullet shatters his sunglasses and tears through his left eye. Blood, shards of bone, and brain matter explode from the back of the officer’s head, spraying the soft beige dirt on the side of the road in red and pink.

The officer’s knees buckle, and he falls in a heap. The girl’s arm goes limp, and the gun falls loosely from her hand.

She walks purposefully and in silence towards the police cruiser. She passes by her father, who sits stunned, mouth agape, in the back seat—she never even glances at him. At the rear of the car, she squats down, gently pulls the daisies out of the ground, and holds them to her chest. She stands up, walks down an embankment on the side of the road to a running brook, places the flowers in the water, and watches them float away.

She retrieves the handcuff keys from the dead officer and walks to the cruiser to free her father. He hugs her immediately, but she’s unable to hug him back. Her arms hang heavy and motionless from her shoulders like slats of wood.

After a minute, she looks at him and says, “Take me away from here – there’s nothing here for me anymore. – there’s nothing.”

Matt’s Wake

When Bill sees Natalie parking across the street, he opens his car door to the cold backhanded slap of winter. “Fucking freezing“ he mumbles to himself. He steps onto the asphalt of the parking lot, pulls a pack of Marlboros from his coat pocket, and smacks it against his palm like he’s in a Tarantino flick.

Through the smoke, he studies the gathering mourners in long black coats and winter scarves, their low conversations demonstrated only by bursts of breath that quickly dissipate in the crisp January air.

He looks up at the sky. “Solid turnout, Matty … respectable for sure.”

Strategically hovering on the outskirts of the steadily growing crowd, Bill plots his entrance to coincide with Natalie’s. It’s been three years since he left her un-kissed on her parent’s doorstep, clutching that night’s carnival winnings, a plush multi-colored parrot, sobbing uncontrollably.

Several months later, Bill understood the horrible mistake he had made. He tried to win Natalie back for the next year and a half, but she refused to let him back into her life.

Matt’s death shook Bill to his core, and yet, almost immediately, his thoughts turned to Natalie. Ashamed, he wondered what it would be like to see her at the wake. Matt would have found his chagrin darkly amusing, the type of reaction that would have led to an entire afternoon of delving into the complexities of the human condition and intricacies of love, death, opportunity, and loss.

Bill imagined how that scenario would have unfolded. He would have said, that’s what love does to a person and Matt would have nodded, lit cigarette in hand, a wry smile on his face, and replied with one of his Mattyisms:

Love is a fork in the garbage disposal.

Bill takes one last drag, tosses the half-smoked Marlboro to the ground, and grinds it out with the toe of his shoe. He heads slowly towards the line forming at the funeral home entrance while watching Natalie cross the street in his peripheral vision.

Nat steps onto the sidewalk gracefully, and Bill falls into step alongside.

“Hey,“ he says, slowing in hopes of an embrace.

“Hey,“ Natalie says, her voice cool.

“Hey,” he says again, dumbly mesmerized by the combination of her bright beauty and profound sadness.

Natalie catches Bill in mid-stare. “Are you okay?”

Bill sputters. “Huh? Oh. Sorry. Yeah, I’m okay. You?“

“Actually, I’m the opposite of okay,” she says quietly.

“That’s true, you’re a knockout,” Bill says and almost immediately regrets his attempt to lighten the mood.

“Excuse me?” Now she stops, rounding on him.

Bill holds up his hands defensively. “The opposite of OK – KO – Knock Out.”

“Seriously? You’re hitting on me right now? Here?” Natalie shakes her head, but there’s a hint of amusement beneath her veneer of sadness.

They fall into the line of mourners, shuffling along a few steps at a time.

“How are your folks?” Bill asks sheepishly, hoping to at least get back to an informal conversation.

“They’re fine; I’ll tell them you asked.” Her sarcasm shatters Bill’s hope like a bullet through candied glass.

By the time Bill and Natalie step into the funeral home, an awkward silence has set up camp. For the next 30 minutes, it’s mostly just quiet nods to other attendees until they find themselves next in line to pay their respects.

As the couple in front of Bill finishes their prayers, Bill quietly panics. Should he accompany Nat to the coffin or hang back and respect her privacy? The couple stands, and the man and woman each briefly place a hand on Matt’s casket before proceeding to the receiving line.

Natalie looks at Bill, but he’s unsure what it means. He offers his hand, which she takes gently, and they approach Matt’s casket together.

They can feel the stares from around the room. Their break-up three years ago was big news to their small community, so this public reconciliation (if that’s what it is) generated some buzz.

Though Bill had imagined Matt’s wake as an opportunity to reconnect with Nat, he hadn’t envisioned what would happen afterwards. It would all depend on how Natalie responded, and up to this point, it had been primarily awkward silence. He didn’t know how to get a beat on what she was feeling.

As soon as they kneel, Bill bows his head and whispers, “Listen, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking about that night.”

“Suzy,” Natalie mutters flatly, head also bowed.

“What?” Full of confusion, he risks a sidelong glance.

“You said you didn’t know what you were thinking about. Fucking Suzy is what you were thinking about – literally. I figured it out when you started dating her the week after you dumped me.”

Bill swallows, another Mattyism springing into his mind like a jack in the box: The truth has a way of shooting you down and shutting you up.

Matt would have enjoyed this exchange for several reasons: He would have loved that instead of praying at his casket (Matt was a devout atheist) they were trying to work out their shit. And he would have reveled in knowing his wake provided Bill and Nat a venue for reconciliation (if that’s what this is). As he’d been fond of saying, Wakes are for the living.

“You’re right, Nat, and I’m sorry I ambushed you today. I’m lost without you. I’m just stumbling through this.”

After a few more quiet seconds, they both turn to look at a framed picture on the table behind Matt’s casket. Taken at a high school graduation party, Matt is center in the picture. But just over Matt’s right shoulder: Bill and Natalie. They’re holding hands, Nat is smiling at Bill, and they all look at ease and happy.

“That was us,” Nat says, pointing to the picture. Tears fall down Bill’s cheeks as he registers everything he’s lost.

Matt was right; wakes are for the living.

Bill and Natalie stand up together. Bill’s hand brushes the back Natalie’s hand, and she pulls away reflexively, looking at him deeply and shaking her head.

They move through the receiving line of hugs, tears, and warm laughter before going their separate ways.

The Writer

He sat alone with his paragraph.

He stared at this lump of white letters on a black screen for nearly twenty minutes.

Then he began to breathe life into it, shuffling words intently, whispering them to himself, listening to how they sounded until he found the perfect cadence—fifty disparate words, strung like bulbs on an idea wire.

“Done,” he said to himself.

“I’m done.”