Saturday Sample: An Advent Calendar of Stories, Cool to Be Kind by Lisa Joy Smith, lemonade

There was once a boy who nobody liked. They called him Nasty Nigel. 

Nigel lived up to his title. He was rude to his parents, mean to his mates, and he tortured small animals. 

Despite all of this, Nasty Nigel was lucky enough to have a Fairy Godmother. “That’s not right,” you’re proba bly thinking, “He doesn’t deserve a Fairy Godmother, he’s the last person who should have his wishes come true – what about all us good kids who say please and thank you and do our homework and don’t hide our vegetables in our pockets?” But Fairy Godmothers don’t work like that; everybody is entitled to help when they need it, even the likes of Nasty Nigel. 

Nigel’s Fairy Godmother, Arabella, was not happy with the arrangement either. She’d only applied for the job in the first place because she’d seen an advert in Fairytale Free-ads and thought it had better perks than standard fairy work. Nasty Nigel’s lack of manners and aggressive attitude got him into sticky situations all of the time. Ara bella was forever rushing to his aid. Nigel never knew, of course (Fairy Godmothers are rarely seen – Cinderella was one of the privileged few), but after several weeks of bailing Nigel out of trouble, Arabella got a bit tired of it. She went to have a word with The Boss. “

I hardly ever have time for anyone else,” she said. “Nasty Nigel is taking-up all my watching quota.” 

The Boss answered from behind his veil of mist; that soothing voice inside her mind, yet all around. “Arabella, grant this boy’s deepest desire and he will soon learn there are other more fulfilling rewards.” The Boss always spoke like that, rather enigmatically, and even if his advice  didn’t make sense to Arabella at the time, it all slotted into place in the end. Clever really. 

Anyway, off Arabella went, to follow his words of wisdom. She put on her best Fairy Godmother uniform, you know, frills and glitter and stuff, made sure her wings had an impressive glow, and polished her wand. She ap peared to Nasty Nigel just as he was turning the dog into a mummy by wrapping him in sellotape. 

“Nigel,” Arabella said, “if I granted you one wish, what would you wish for?”

Nigel’s beady eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding, right? This is a joke innit?” 

“Nigel,” Arabella replied, “I’m not kidding. This isn’t a joke. I’m your Fairy Godmother. I’m giving you a single wish and you can wish for anything at all. Do you understand? Anything.” 

Nigel looked at her doubtfully, because people like him know deep down that they don’t deserve wishes. “Why?” he said. 

“Look, just hurry up and make your wish before I change my mind,” Arabella snapped. 

“Right,” said Nigel, letting the dog drag itself off to survive another day. “I can have any wish I want, yeah? I can pick, like, enormous wealth, or everlasting life, or to be a prince, or whatever?” 

“Yes, yes, anything. Though I warn you – be careful, remember King Midas….” 

But that horrible boy’s eyes were alight with greed and he didn’t want to listen to the advice of a stupid fairy. “I’ve already decided,” he said. “I want you to make me really cool and really popular, right now.” 

So Arabella granted Nigel’s wish there and then, though it would take a little time for the effects to show. “There we are,” she said. “I’ll be off now.”  

“You’ve done it?” 

 “Yes,” she said. 

“Well, I don’t feel no different, fairy.” 

 “Oh, you’ll soon feel very different,” Arabella assured him, with a sweet smile, and disappeared in a puff of glittering smoke. 

 

Arabella secretly visited Nigel the next day. He was in a real rush to get to school. He couldn’t wait to test his new popularity. 

Nasty Nigel strutted into the classroom with his hair spiked and his tie at a jaunty angle, and he leant on the doorframe waiting for everyone to notice him. But all he got were a few funny looks. 

“I’m here,” Nigel said. 

Miss Robins peered over the top of her glasses. “So you are. I’m waiting to start the register Nigel, sit down.” 

Arabella, who was watching from the back of the room, saw Nigel’s frown. 

“How come Miss Robins spoke to me like that?” Nigel muttered under his breath. “Doesn’t she know I’m popular? And how come everybody isn’t looking at me? Don’t they know I’m cool now?” 

Arabella smiled to herself. He’d be cool all right, but it was going to take a bit of time. 

Nigel became more and more disgruntled as the day progressed. He wasn’t picked as a team leader in games, the other children steered clear of him in the playground, and nobody admired his spiky hair. 

“Stupid fairy’s stupid wish,” he muttered. But some thing was different about Nigel. Soon the other kids re marked on it. 

 “Hey, what’s with the orange nose, you doin’ it for a bet?” a boy called Sean said. 

 “Huh?” Nigel checked his nose. “What you on about?” 

Sean ran off laughing so Nigel went back to the classroom. 

“For goodness-sake Nigel, go to the toilets and wash that paint from your nose,” Miss Robins ordered the moment she saw him. 

Nigel slunk to the boy’s toilets. And when he looked in the mirror he found that his nose really was quite orange. And it was growing. And it was pointy. 

Arabella sat quietly on the edge of the sink, watching with invisible smugness. 

Nigel shook his fist in the air. “Oi, fairy! I know this is your fault. What’ve you done to me?” 

Arabella smiled. Stage one was complete. 

 

Nigel woke up the next morning to find his mother standing over him. 

 “You’re as white as a sheet and you feel like ice,” she said. “You’re staying at home today.” 

Nigel drove his mother mad. He collected mini beasts from the garden and set them loose in the house, he deleted a load of important stuff from her computer, and he ate everything out of the biscuit barrel, which made him be sick all over the shoes in the shoe rack. 

“You’re going back to school tomorrow,” said Mum. 

The next morning, Nigel’s head had puffed-up like a balloon, but his mother still sent him to school. The other kids picked on him something awful. Arabella felt quite sorry for him. She re-appeared in Nigel’s bedroom that evening. 

Nigel waved his tiny stick-arms at her. “I want a word with you! I asked to be popular, and all you’ve done is make me fat and given me a stupid carrot-nose!” 

“And button eyes,” Arabella added. 

Nigel rushed to the mirror. Two black buttons stared back at him. “What have you done?” 

“I’ve turned you into a snowman, to match your icy heart,” she said. “After all, you did ask to be cool.” 

“I asked to be popular!” he shrieked. 

“Oh, but everybody loves snowmen Nigel, so you’re sure to be popular… eventually.” 

“You’re rubbish at magic!” he shouted. 

But Arabella stuck her fingers in her ears and turned invisible. 

 

 So Nigel had no choice but to cope with being a snowman. He needed special clothes to fit his new round shape, he couldn’t go anywhere near radiators, he had to shuffle to school because he couldn’t get in and out of the car, and worst of all, he couldn’t play computer games because of his tiny stick-arms. 

Although Nigel got far more attention now that he was a snowman, often there were so many children around him that their hot bodies made bits of him melt. It wasn’t very nice to be standing in a puddle half the time, it looked like he’d wet himself. When the new class pets ar rived, Nigel leant over the cage with everybody else, and Ginger and Spice the guinea pigs got hold of Nigel’s car rot nose and pulled it through the bars. They’d nibbled the end off before Miss Robins could retrieve it. And although Nigel now had lots of friends to play with, their idea of playing with him meant pulling bits off of his body to make snowballs. Great fun for everybody else, but not so great for Nigel. 

Nigel often had to sit all by himself at the back of the classroom beside an open window to keep cool. One par ticularly cold and snowy day in January, the heating was  up so high that Nigel had to sit right up close to the win dow and nobody came near him all morning. Nigel felt so lonely that he started to sniff. 

“Don’t cry, or your cheeks will melt,” said a soft voice. 

Nigel looked up. A new girl stood over him. She had round glasses and very pink cheeks. 

“I’ll sit with you, if you want,” she said. 

Nigel’s button-eyes widened. “Thank you.” 

The new girl was called Carly. She went to get her coat and sat with Nigel right up until break. 

Nigel helped Carly with her number-work. 

Arabella was so surprised she nearly fell off the edge of her desk. 

At break time a bunch of kids wanted to play with Nigel. They didn’t try to break bits off him this time be cause there was plenty of snow lying around, but they still threw snowballs at him because he couldn’t run away, only shuffle. A boy called Barry saw that Nigel was getting a bit upset. “Come and play over here,” Barry said. “Thank you,” said Nigel. 

Barry told the others to go away. “Nigel’s had enough,” he said. The other children ran off because Barry was one of the biggest boys in the school. 

“Do you want to borrow my hat and scarf?” Nigel asked, noticing that Barry was shivering. “I don’t really need them; they’re just for show.” 

“Thanks,” said Barry. He put on Nigel’s stripy hat and scarf. 

Arabella steadied herself against the fence. “Well, I’ll eat my wand,” she muttered. 

At lunchtime Nigel had trouble eating because he couldn’t reach his mouth with his little stick-arms. There 12 was a girl called Zoe sitting opposite. “Would you like me to help you?” she asked. 

“Okay,” said Nigel. 

Zoe broke Nigel’s sandwiches into pieces and popped them into his mouth one by one, which made her giggle, and Nigel laughed too. “Would you like some chocolate cake?” Nigel of fered. 

“I love chocolate cake!” said Zoe. 

So Nigel shared his chocolate cake. 

Arabella almost choked on a pumpkin puff. 

And it didn’t stop there. When Nigel got home he thanked his Mum for a lovely tea, and he played hide and seek with his sister even though it was virtually impossi ble for him to hide with his huge white bottom. 

Arabella granted Nigel happy dreams that night. She bestowed warm, contented feelings as he slept. 

In the early hours Nigel the snowman melted com pletely away… and in the morning, Nigel the boy woke up. 

 

The first thing Nigel did when he realised his body was back to normal, was run, rather than shuffle, to the mirror, where a pair of happy eyes looked back at him. 

When Nigel got to school lots of people were pleased to see him. Carly gave him a wide smile and Barry gave him a pat on the back. Zoe gave him a hug, and there was no puddle afterwards. So Nigel’s wish came true after all, and nobody ever called him Nasty Nigel again. Yes, it was certainly a success story, though, of course, Arabella couldn’t take all the credit – The Boss was the brains be hind it really. 

There’s one more thing you might be wondering be fore the story is over, did Nigel ever thank Arabella for 13 turning him into a snowman? (And back again?) Well, the answer is, he wanted to. He did call for her, but she never returned. You see, Fairy Godmothers only appear when you really need them. And besides, Arabella was too busy making somebody else’s wishes come true. 

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 About the author  

Lisa Joy Smith Lisa Joy Smith is a teacher and a mother of three little little girls. She has been a member of SCBWI for over a year now and she finds the Norwich critique group particularly helpful for improving my work. She is currently polishing a novel, Moth, before she sends it to her agent with fingers crossed. She is halfway through the first draft of her new book, The Pulse.

Dan by Judith Skilleter, a glass of Argentinian Merlot

It is January and Dan is fed up. Christmas has come and gone and there will be no presents until his birthday, ten months away in November. Dan does not count Easter as a present receiving opportunity as his family are just too traditional and all he gets is chocolate, some of it in the shape of rabbits. How old does his family think he is? Four years old? Five years old? Dan is seven years old and he wishes his family were more like his best pal Jacob’s. Jacob is already planning his Easter present list and will probably get things connected to Fortnite, his favourite computer game, or football boots or jazzy designer clothes. Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Christmas was sort of OK for presents. He got lots of Lego sets, all of which have now been completed and are proudly displayed on a shelf in his bedroom. Dan would like to say to his relatives, who he has to admit are very kind, that he would like Lego bricks, just bricks, not sets that you have to follow a complicated plan to assemble. These do not need imagination but a pile of bricks of assorted sizes and colours are a gift of total imagination and Dan would spend hours building things where the finished object would only be realised at the end. But Dan has been taught to be polite and he says very nicely on receipt of the various Lego building sets “Thank you so much; this is just what I wanted.” Dan can cope with these little white lies with but the kiss expected by the gift giver are things Dan would rather do without. Especially Great Aunt Martha who always smells of a combination of lavender and pee.

Uncle Philip, his dad’s brother, is an English teacher and every Christmas and birthday Dan gets a book, a hardback, usually a classic – “For you to enjoy later young man” says Uncle Philip usually with a wink and a grin revealing yellow teeth due to years of smoking.  Thankfully Uncle Philip does not expect to give or receive a kiss.  Dan has a growing shelf of Charles Dickens’ books which look as if they have far too many words for him to really enjoy – yet. Uncle Philip has also bought him The Hobbit and took him to the cinema to see the film. The film was OK but no matter how many times he starts the book he never gets past page three.  Jacob has some books by Anthony Horowitz   and he let Dan borrow one. It was great fun to read as were Jacob’s Ben Ten books – Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Dan’s main present from his mum and dad was a keyboard, a small piano without legs. His mum and dad have suggested he might like piano lessons and this is to get him used to a piano keyboard. Dan never asked for a keyboard, Dan has no interest in learning to play the piano and the keyboard is currently under his bed.

Then there are the friends and relatives who add to his train set. Dan’s dad has built in the spare room a huge track lay out where he, Dan’s dad, spends most evenings. New trains and extra track and houses and people are always met with great delight by Dan’s dad and Dan, of course, says, “Thank you so much; it is just what I wanted”. Dan really wasn’t bothered about the train set but he moves things around once or twice a week leaving the impression that he has a real interest in this unwanted and unasked for present.

Jacob, of course, is asked to write a list of what he would like for Christmas.  When Dan made a small list of things he would really like for Christmas his mum and dad told him that a list would mean there were no surprises on Christmas morning – and Christmas was all about surprises. “Not in Jacob’s house” thinks Dan.

His godmother, Mum’s best friend Gaynor, was at their house when the unsuccessful conversation about a Christmas gift list took place. Gaynor, noticed only by Dan, sneakily hid the screwed up list up her sleeve and winked at her favourite godson.  Her present was a box of pencils and felt-tips, of every colour under the sun, plus lots of good quality paper in all sizes.  Dan loves drawing and this gift had been at the top of his list and he loved it. Dan’s thanks to Gaynor on Christmas day were real and meant, he was so pleased to open something he really liked and had wanted so very much. Dan loves his pens and pencils but part of him wishes that this gift had not been at the top of the list. The gift at the top of the list, drawing things, was not his number one wish. Dan wishes he had put Fortnite or a football strip of his favourite team at the top– then he would have been totally happy.

Dan is a football fan. He adores football and he plays Saturday morning football in a local team. Unfortunately Dan’s family are a rugby union family and relatives in the past have played professionally for various rugby teams. It is even believed that a second cousin once removed may have played for England. Dan knows that his mum and dad would prefer that he enjoyed the game with the oval shaped ball and he overheard a conversation where his mum and dad were discussing a school Dan might go to when he turns eleven, a school that specialises in rugby. That made Dan very sad. Jacob, of course, also loves football and has been spotted by scouts for a couple of professional teams. Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Oh how Dan wishes he could make a few, just a few, decisions about his life. At the very least, birthday and Christmas presents would be things he would be delighted to choose for himself. He would even put up stupid Easter rabbits as presents if he could have more say at birthdays and Christmases. As for the big things, like where he went to school, well, that might have to wait until he was older. Perhaps when he was ten. 

About the author 

 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren.

A Frail Nest by Eric Dogini, Earl Grey tea

A pigeon sits on my steel windowsill, fussing over a pile of sticks. There’s six of them, maybe seven, lying in strange disarray around a couple of eggs. An attempt at a nest, I suppose. But who am I to judge? Humans once domesticated pigeons — they were our messengers. But humanity found something better, and we left the poor birds behind. We were fine, but they’d forgotten what it was like to be alone. That’s why they struggle to build nests. It’s not their fault. I’m sorry, pigeon.

 

She continues to peck at her mess of twigs. Mrs. Pigeon, I’ll call her.

 

Rustling. A key fumbling in a lock. He’s back. Now it’s going to be me, Mrs. Pigeon, and him. But Mrs. Pigeon will leave. Birds don’t stay in one place very long, do they? Then again, she’s a mother. Her children are on my windowsill. She’s anchored here; I think she’ll be back.

 

The door opens. I shift on the couch, facing the now open doorway. There he is, dressed in his closed black overcoat with his bright red tie. His neatly combed hair, and a beard trimmed just right. He’s got his coat clenched tightly: something in there he doesn’t want me to see.

 

Mrs. Pigeon, I wonder who got you pregnant. Does he hide things from you, too?

 

He takes a right and goes into our bedroom. If he’d gone forward, down the hall, he’d have run into me. Behind him, the door closes. I think I wanted to greet him. I mean, I was supposed to. But he isn’t supposed to hide things, so neither of us have acted quite right.

 

The door opens. He’s not wearing his coat anymore. White shirt, and a tie. Does he think that he’s deceived me? I mean, perhaps he has; I know what he did, but not the specifics. The specifics are what matter. I would know that, because I should be an author.

 

‘Heather? How are you?’ He sounds unfazed. Tries to. Underneath his voice, there’s a slight shakiness. The weight of deceit.

 

‘I’m fine, dear. How was work today?’ I ask.

 

‘Same old. I’m just glad to be back here.’ No eye contact. He can’t tell a straight-faced lie, and he knows it. Why don’t I just go see what he’s hiding? Really, why don’t I?

 

‘I’ve been bored today.’ I sigh, leaning back into the couch. 'There’s nothing to do around the house.’

 

‘I thought you were working on something. A novel this time, no?’ He holds his hands together, rubbing the two indexes against each other. Fidgeting.

 

‘It’s not been going well. So I stopped.’ I look back to Mrs. Pigeon. ‘You can’t force it, Elliot. If I don’t feel creative then I won’t be. I’m stuck.’

 

‘I’m sorry.’ Apologizing. But for what? ‘There’s something I got for you. It’s a ... um. I should just show you.’ He gets up and motions toward the bedroom. Still can’t look me in the eyes. His head is pointed down. My heart pounding. Really, I don’t want to know.

 

When I come back, Mrs. Pigeon, you better be there.

 

He leads me in and gestures to the bed. There’s something there. A bundle of roses. But it’s not right. They’re —

 

‘I know you hate flowers. You think they’re wasteful. And I agree. So I got you wooden roses,’ he says, scratching his neck. ‘Just as beautiful, but they, uh. Sorry.’

 

‘Why are the flowers black?’

 

‘The sculptor put too much dye. And they already took a month to make. If I ordered another, they would’ve come so much later. I’m sorry. I really am.’

 

Forgive me, but am I supposed to be flattered by a bouquet of dead, black roses? Is this how he celebrates me? I mean—it's not that I don’t love him, but—what is it, then? Why does he seem so far away?

 

‘Thank you. It’s the thought that counts, you know,’ I say. Should I hug him? Maybe. But I don’t feel like it.

 

He smiles at me, then walks back to the kitchen. His eyes never met mine. I wonder if he loves me still.

 

I follow him back, and Mrs. Pigeon is sat waiting. There was something else, don’t you think?

 

She chirps. I’ll assume that was a yes, because an interjecting 'no' wouldn’t make sense in that context.

 

I think I have to ask.

 

‘Elliot, earlier — was there anything else under your coat? Other than the flowers.’ I bite my lip.

 

He gazes at me, an eyebrow raised. 'What are you talking about?’

 

‘Is there something I’m not being told?’

 

‘I—I don’t understand,’ he says, his voice wavering.

 

I sit down next to him, my breaths shallow. ‘You were avoiding my eyes. Why?’

 

‘I’m looking at you right now, Heather. I hope that’s enough.’ His hands clasp around his knees.

 

‘You know it’s more than just eye contact,’ I say. ‘There’s a connection that isn’t being made. And it bothers me.’

 

‘You’re accusing me of something, and I haven’t done anything. Please, don’t make up an issue where there isn’t one.’

 

‘I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know, Elliot; what is it that’s between us?’ My heart stops.

 

He sighs. ‘I’m not sure, Heather. I don’t feel anything.’ There it is. For a moment, the world freezes. His words echo in my head, unraveling all the knots tying up my thoughts. I want to be sad, or angry even, but my heart is numb. If there’s anything at all, maybe it’s relief.

 

‘Neither do I,’ I respond.

 

There’s nothing between us. Nothing at all.

 

Outside, Mrs. Pigeon flutters away, leaving behind her mess of sticks. Fly far, my friend. Spend some time away from this nest. You deserve to be happy.

 

‘If that’s how we both feel, then why are we still talking about it?’ says Elliot, his eyes flickering. He doesn’t get it. Or he doesn’t want to. I furrow my brow, because I should be frustrated, but my heart is left empty. I see his restless hands move to his thigh, tapping as they go. I wonder when they stopped reaching for me.

 

There’s nothing else to be said, so I go back into our room. One of the petals on my faux bouquet is chipped. I didn’t notice that before, but I suppose a dent in an already ruined carving won’t do much. Outside, Elliot clicks away on his laptop. Somewhere, someone needs him. How magnificent.

 

Now, here I am once more, sat with my journal open and my pen in hand. I’ve written so much, but I’ve said nothing.

 

What a pigeon I have made of myself.

 

About the author

            Eric Dogini is a novice writer looking to break into the literary world. He lives in the United States, near the Appalachian Mountains. His pastimes include writing and spending time with his dog, Lucky.

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The Chef by Bryan W. Myers, Yuengling or lager beer in a green bottle

 Bill worked nights, and he hated his life. Yet, he continued living, and for what?

      The strain was enough to make his heart ache, and it did. But like I said—he continued to live his life.

      He was always due in at work the next day. Even if he had a day off (which was rare), it always felt like he was due at work the next day. He hardly had time to breathe.

      In the wake of the corona-virus pandemic, things became “normal” again. Whatever that meant.

      And it didn’t mean much to Bill. Nothing did.

      So, he took to drinking.

      When I first saw Bill, he looked horrendous. But I didn’t say anything to him about it. We both continued to live our lives: he was a writer, and I was a chef.

 

***

 

Like I was saying, I started my career as a waiter, worked my way up, and Bill seemed to always hang around me. He fostered a sort of aimlessness about my presence, that others always questioned me about him.

      “What’s with your friend, Bill?”

      “Yeah. What does he do?”

      I’d been looking at three or four pages of inventory, thinking of cauliflower, eggplant, red potatoes, carrots, iceberg lettuce, onions, garlic, peppers… I pulled a pencil out of my mouth, whiskey on my breath, and I marked a little check mark next to things we needed for the restaurant. One day, I dreamed of having my own restaurant.

      Lost in contemplative thought, I just mumbled, “I dunno. He’s a writer.”

      “A writer?”

      “Yeah.”

      “What does he write?”

      That made me stop. Always. I couldn’t think of an appropriate response.

      “I don’t know.”

      “You don’t know?”

      I nodded, looking away absentmindedly. Whenever I caught the gaze of my colleagues—they always seemed to be hankered down within themselves, so caught up in the gossip of the day—that I longed to be as far away from them as possible. Each day seemed to linger in limbo: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. It all became one and the same, except, as a chef, I instinctively knew that each day had meaning. Mondays were dead. Tuesdays were a little busier. Wednesdays shone a little light. Thursdays were good. Fridays were crazy. Saturdays were nuts. And Sundays were the final resting place of many local cooks and chefs I’d met.

      “He’d never make it,” I said.

      Walt, one of the older waiters noticed my gaze. He was polishing a glass, over and over again, .and I couldn’t figure out why. They were collected in my office. Walt stared at me, knowingly. We both nodded. There was a strange feeling between us, something we couldn’t say aloud. Bill is free. He’s free from the workaday world, and he doesn’t even know it. He doesn’t know. He’s clueless. He doesn’t even know how lucky he is.

      And I woke up in a cold sweat, surrounded by an empty room and a lifeless pack of cigarettes. I’d fallen asleep in bed without knowing it.

      The cigarette pack was on my chest. Everything on my shirt was stained with grease, black, and wet from the beer I’d spilled on me and the mattress too.

      I heard some typing, typing—in the living room.

      That’s where Bill “slept.” Although I hardly ever saw him asleep.

      To me, he was almost like Picasso. But I never told him that. He had all this potential, and I did too. And we connected at different levels of brotherly familiarity, something nobody else could ever understand.

      I heard all that typing, typing. And I thought of Picasso taking naps in his friend’s bed in the middle of the day, when his friend was away at work. And then, when his friend returned—I thought of Picasso painting in an attic at night. The entire world was in front of him, and all he had to do was dance. That ultimate dance of the artist versus death—to face the world. That’s all he had to do.

      Bill kept typing, typing. I smelled the smoke from a cigarette in the living room, and that made me feel good. Somebody else could keep up with me, I thought.

      But I was the one asleep at the wheel. I paid the bills, kept the lights on, put food in the fridge. And all Bill did was type, type away at some useless, pointless bullshit. He wasn’t fucking Picasso. Not even close.

      My mood changed quickly. I felt it. I hadn’t eaten much that night, only some leftover chicken croquettes that somebody had burned. What the fuck? It was becoming impossible to find decent cooks to work the line.

      “Hey,” I said.

      There was no response.

      “HEY BILL.”

      “Yeh?”

      “What happened?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean, why am I in bed in my chef outfit with a beer spilled all over me?”

      He laughed. Then I heard the chair roll out from behind my desk (where Bill wrote), and his footsteps came across the hardwood floor in the West Philly apartment we shared, that I paid for.

      “Dude, are you okay?”

      I looked to my left, and there he was—scraggly long hair, brown, skinny, tall, lanky, awkward, and afraid. But it was the strangest thing to have somebody asking me that question, because nobody else ever did.

      “Yeah, just tired.” I drew a drag on my cigarette and so did Bill on his. It was dark, but the light began to shine through the gaps of the curtains on the windows overlooking the street.

      “What happened? Did I fall asleep?”

      “Yeah, man. I guess so.”

      “What do you mean ‘I guess so’?” I couldn’t help but laugh. I didn’t know why.

      “Well, we were out at the bar…”

      “Oh, that’s right, I forgot.”

      “Yeah,” Bill nodded, dragging on his cigarette, blowing out a cloud of smoke. He was wearing a plain t-shirt, dark green, had jean cutoff shorts, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. He looked homeless, like a vagabond who might put the world on his back, just to piss on it—or himself—out of fear, recklessness, and spite. The pointlessness of human existence seemed to echo and smear within his aura. Almost like nothing ever bothered him but everything did, at the same time.

      “Well, you were flirting with Andrea.”

      “Oh shit. Was I?”

      He laughed.

      “Yeah, yeah. So, Carey kept calling me instead of you…”

      I sat up.

      “Oh fuck.”

      “Yeah, man.”

      “What did you tell her?”

      “What do you think I told her?”

      “I have no idea…”

      “I told her that you were busy playing pool.”

      I felt relieved, somewhat. I looked around, coming to my senses.

      “Did you spill your beer?”

      I looked down at the mattress in the gray light of dawn. Still, the wet stain was visible. I touched it. “Yes, yes. I guess I did.”

      We both laughed. I took the beer bottle at my side and drained it. Bill had a can of beer, and he drank it too. We finished our beers in silence. Then I belched a loud one that relieved me of a shit-load of stress, and I felt calmer. Like everything was going to be OK. If I just got…

      “Hey, man. You want another beer?”

      I laughed.

      “You read my mind.”

      “Yeah, man. You must’ve had too much whiskey. But I didn’t realize how drunk you were until we got home.”

      “Yeah, I was going to ask you about that.” I looked around me, trying to locate my mind … wow … things were spinning, all of a sudden. I felt dizzy, nauseous, and sick.

      “Man, I feel like dog shit.”

      I fell back onto the bed. Life was impossible again.

      “Oh shit, man. Are you OK?”

      I held my forehead. It was sweaty and warm.

      “Just gimme a second,” I said. Each time I closed my eyes the room began to spin. I fought to open them without puking.

      “Here man, lemme help you out.”

      I felt Bill lifting me up by the shoulders.

      “I think you should sit up, if you’re gonna spew.”

      “Shut the fuck up,” I said through laughter and pain.

      But he was right. I felt better by sitting up against the headboard.

      “Carey is gonna kill me…”

      “Nah, man. It’ll be all right.”

      “No, no. She’s been asking so many questions at work. She knows I’ve been flirting with Andrea. She’s been busting my balls.”

      “Yeah, so what?”

      I pulled my hand away from my face. “Dude, no offense. But you don’t understand women.”

      He laughed, and I could sense his embarrassment.

      “You don’t get it. She’ll fucking leave me and take half the shit in this apartment. And then what?”

      I didn’t mean to say all that. Actually, I wanted Carey to leave me. I wanted any excuse to get into bed with Andrea. She was tall, blonde, skinny, and way out of my league. Carey was a good girl, but it had been about three or four years—and I’d had enough. She plagued me with questions and insecurity. Everybody wanted to cling to me. I was the chef, I made bank, and we put out some of the best food in the city, especially for high-end clients. I could have any girl I wanted, or so I thought.

      “Yeah, I dunno man. Maybe you should just chill. Don’t think about that right now.”

      “Yeah, you’re right,” I said.

      After a few moments, I began to feel better, like my nausea might subside.

      “Get me that beer, bro.”

      He laughed and did as he was told. That felt good.

      He returned with two bottles of Yuengling. That delicious golden lager of the Keystone State.

      We opened our bottles of beer. We had our identities. I was a chef, and Bill was whatever the fuck Bill was or wanted to be. On my dime, of course. I said nothing.

      Then I started laughing, uncontrollably. I couldn’t help it. I laughed and laughed. I thought I might cry. I began laughing so hard.

      “What the fuck is so funny?” he asked.

      “Now I remember,” I said.

      “Remember what?”

      I laughed some more, covering my face, crying tears of laughter.

      “I did it,” I said.

      “Did what?”

      “That’s why Carey isn’t here.”

      Bill kept drinking the bottle of beer as the sunlight got brighter.

      “Don’t you remember?” I looked at him. He seemed confused.

      “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you sure you’re OK?”

      “Am I OK?” I sat up straight, holding my beer. The pack of cigarettes fell to the floor. “We did over 400 covers, I’m fucked out of my head, and I got so drunk tonight that I barely remembered what I did!”

      “What did you do?”

      “I fucked her!”

      “WHAT?”

      “YEAH.”

      “Where?”

      “When we went out to her car in the parking lot.”

      “No way.” Bill started laughing.

      “I did it!”

      We both began to laugh and cackle and fight for air.

      “What the fuck, man!”

      “Carey is gonna kill me!”

      Then we heard a door slam outside. A car door.

      “Oh shit,” I said. “Go see who that is.”

      Bill went out into the living room and pulled back the blinds.

      “Oh boy,” he said. “It’s Carey.”

      “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

      I jumped out of bed. “What is she doing?”

      “She’s getting out of her car and going to the trunk. Looks like she’s getting something out of there…”

      “Oh fuck,” I went over to the window and I saw her. She looked emboldened, intoxicated, and irate. She was still in her waitress outfit. I didn’t understand that. “What the fuck is she doing?”

      “I have no clue.”

      Then I saw it. She had my laundry in the trunk. All my work clothes. My chef jackets, pants, t-shirts, underwear. She held the basket, slammed the trunk, and walked across the sidewalk. She reached into the basket and grabbed a t-shirt and flung it at the window.

      “Duck!”

      We both got down with our beers. “Oh shit, dude,” Bill said. “She’s pissed!”

      “Yeah, no fucking shit.”

      Bill stood up slightly to peer out the window.

      “Well,” he said, “she’s definitely throwing all your chef clothes all over the sidewalk and into the street.”

      We could both hear her shrieks of anger. “And here’s for THAT girl. And here’s for THAT girl. And this is for THAT girl.”

      “I guess she found out about more than Carey,” Bill said sarcastically and without a tinge of humor. It was the first time all week that I really wanted to punch him in the face.

      He drank his beer. I held mine while sitting on the floor, shocked, staring into nothing.

      Then I looked up and saw the computer monitor. I saw Bill’s words on the screen. Lines of text that he’d written while sitting out here, alone. He was always alone. He never had money. Every shitty job he worked made him helpless, as ever—but he never complained. At least not to me. He never had any deadlines throughout those endlessly soul-crushing days of being busy or a girlfriend who came screaming at him at sunrise.

      “What could you possibly be writing about?” I asked in disbelief.

      “What?” He traced my gaze from the window to the floor to the computer, my computer. My desk. My apartment. My fucked-up life.

      “Do you really wanna know?”

      “Yes,” I said, as Carey peeled away, tires screeching, as she floored it out of the neighborhood after decorating the sidewalk, windows, street, and stoop, all with my clean chef clothes. Well, they wouldn’t be clean anymore, would they?

      “I really wanna know.”

About the author 

 

Bryan W. Myers has been published in various lit mags. His first chapbook, Empty Beer Cans: Quarantine Poems from Da Nang, Vietnam, was released in 2022 by Alien Buddha Press. His second chapbook, Traveling the World (at the End of the World) was published by Ghost City Press. (bryanwilliammyers.com) 

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