grabbingsand's Stories

New Arrival

2008-05-30T20:22:59Z

“Are you sure I’m supposed to be here?”

They come looking for permission or confirmation. Receiving either according to their own desires, the new arrivals would nod silently to themselves, then shuffle on through the awaiting gates. Nobody was turned away, not having come this far.

And so, the man in the white sport coat looked up from the Ledger, nodded quickly then went back about his business. But this arrival was not going quietly.

“So I just go on in? No goons from security to pull me out of line, give me the twice-over with an electric—?”

“Security,” the Accountant interrupted calmly, “is not so much of a concern here.” The grin that followed was meant to be comforting. “There is not a soul here to harass you, challenge you, discourage you.”

The new arrival cursed soundlessly.

“There’s none of that either, I’m afraid. Do enjoy your stay.”

The Accountant returned his limitless attention to the Ledger. His hand moved so deftly, a ritual of writing interrupted only by the turning of pages.

Franchisement

2008-05-14T19:17:51Z

”... and hang up the phone,” she said, heading out to the mailbox.

She’d been expecting it? Why would she ever need a gun? Unless …

“Oh, God.” His knees gave out, then met the floor.

No sooner had she stepped out, she returned. Over his pulse, he’d heard her steps on the sidewalk, the way she’d opened the screen door and held it to close slowly behind her. He always let it slam. She hated that.

“Honestly, I should leave you down there. But I haven’t the time.”

He was crying now, shaking, stem to stern. To confirm, he peered up through tearful eyes to know for sure and there it was, cradled in her arms. “I’ll do anything, be a better husband, just don’t—!”

“This one isn’t mine, you fool! Pull yourself together!”

He stood, bolt upright, as if his posture might save his life.

“Good,” she smiled.

She opened a closet, fetched a bag marked Avon and placed it inside. As she stepped out the front door, she said simply, “This Hand Of Glory™ is for Ms. Monday in #314. She’ll be so excited, won’t she?”

His Morning Jacket

2008-05-13T20:37:16Z

April was always so cruel, signaling soon he’d have to leave his lucky jacket at home. That jacket was his armor, his security blanket. But only teens and punks can get away with leather in the summer. Grown men? No, lest they become “that guy.” But this morning was too brisk to go without.

He quit smoking months ago, but kept a pack all winter. He liked the way a pack balanced that coat, resting in an inside pocket. He’d dropped the habit, but someone might need one, and there he’d be: A Boy Scout on loan from RJ Reynolds.

Hands in pockets, head down, he hiked the three blocks from his apartment to the train station turnstile, then cursed quietly. The monthly pass was sitting on his kitchen table, exiled from his other inside pocket the night before. No pass? No ride? And no ride meant late to work.

Cursing again, he turned and steamed into a curious girl in a battered leather jacket. She wasn’t hurt, was laughing actually, but still he apologized as he offered to help her stand.

“Nice jacket,” she said.

Yesterday Girl

2008-05-08T19:02:53Z

Sunshine flooded into the room. It collected in pools at her bare feet and washed against the nightstand.

Quietly, she stood and stepped to the window. A downtown, by looks and sound. Car horns and sirens offered clues. But today’s geography lesson would have to wait.

With her left hand, she untied a black ribbon from around her right hand. The ribbon had held her hand in a fist all night. The cramp is always awful, but she couldn’t sleep otherwise. Her fingers uncurled, revealing a bar napkin and a stack of Post-It notes. On the topmost is written a girl’s name and an address. On the napkin is a boy’s name and a phone number.

Later, she’ll step out onto the sidewalk, then turn back, look up and write today’s address on the next Post-It. She’ll learn today’s name later.

Later still, she’ll buy a postcard from the post office. She’ll address it to the girl on the topmost Post-It. Napkin, name and number close at hand, she’ll stand at the counter and write:

“Yesterday, when I was you …”