Flash Fiction
by Adam Kluger

 

 

Hamptons Party

 

The woman had a face that was a cross between a piranha and an old leather bag. Her breath smelled like tar and shit. The red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and slurred speech that came from the oral opening of the head said the words, "ammmm uh liar."

 

It looked at Clarence Puddleby from a weird angled head with piss-yellow strands of hair oddly askew. The creature reeled and steadied itself on expensive looking high heels that seemed ill-matched with the conservative grey suit that the fish-headed legal eagle was squeezed into.

 

Puddleby was repulsed but fascinated by the woman as she sized him up as a potential snack. She leaned into him with tanned and wrinkly talons that sported shiny gold rings and immaculate nails that were blood red. Clarence felt them dig into his arm as her smiley-shit breath sprayed his face and then a bony knee suddenly insinuated itself against his crotch.

 

"Ammmm uh liarrrrrr...who do YOU know?"

 

"Umm... I know the publisher....we do work together."

 

"Ammmm uh liar....(laugh)...It was a hideous laugh, a wheeze that ended with a long cough that was a sound Clarence never really wanted to hear ever again, just like her breath was a smell he wanted to forget forever.

 

The old lawyer was liquored up and horny and she probably had won a case and was feeling pretty good about herself.

 

Clarence was no longer interested in waiting for his free scotch and soda as he pushed his way through the busy crowd that swirled around like turds in a stopped-up bowl.

 

Clarence found the door and texted his friend Rika Raka that he had to go.

 

Rika Raka understood. She had left 10 minutes before him.

 

 

 

 

 

Mary Mary

 

Pen Gipperson wasn't thrilled that he had to visit the attorney handling the lawsuit against him at a fuckhole office in Connecticut. Extremely inconvenient. But because of legal matters there was no way around it.

 

Thank goodness for Spotify and ear buds.

 

Other passengers on the train always pissed Pen off with their inane conversations that he had no desire to be a part of.

 

The Rolling Stones  and a Stephen King paperback made the hour ride bearable. The meeting with the attorney generally wasn't too bad. The lawsuit seemed to be under control and the damage seemed to be manageable.

 

After the lawyer meeting he would walk to the local diner. He liked it despite the oppressive heat and old people. The waitress had a great figure that she usually hid in a baseball shirt and tight sweatpants and the coffee and French fries and gravy cost less that 5 bucks. At least 4 free coffee refills too. Great deal.

 

There was usually one old woman with an annoying voice who would gad about the diner- sidling up to diners offering some doggerel or nonsense about the government or the weather or the price of milk. Her name was Mary and she was a regular which meant she was tolerated by the owner manager and other regulars.

 

Mary was old and sickly and walked around with a balding head and Bent like a pretzel body that was painful to watch as it slowly moved from table to table. Mary laughed at her own jokes and sayings like a drunk - but Mary wasn't drunk she was old and near death. Her cheeks were sunken in and her hair was grey and frizzy.

 

Maybe she had AIDS or maybe it was another deadly illness. Pen just knew that he wanted to sit as far away from Mary as possible. Didn't want to look at her or talk to her. Or worse, smell her.

 

The older waitress scolded, "Mary, Mary!" for being a scamp and Pen buried his face in a newspaper.

 

He disliked Mary and was pissed off that every time he would go to the diner that she was holding court. Holding on. Fighting for attention. Spending her last days hours and minutes and seconds at the only diner near his shit-heel lawyer.

 

The food at the diner was good enough and half of what you would pay at any other diner. Only problem was the Mary tax. Being forced to listen to a sing-songy, old hag's cackle that grated like a fork on metal.

 

Mary and her fellow octogenarians seemed to know each other and even like each other. The bone yard was getting ready for all of them and the diner was apparently their refuge. It was cheap, well lit and they were tolerated.

 

Why Pen felt so put upon is anybody's guess. Maybe it was the stress of the lawsuit or maybe he was just an age-ist .

 

Pen slid his french fry into the bubbling hot cup of gravy and then into his mouth almost burning his tongue. His head was throbbing and he glanced at Mary with her sunken face rifling through her warm-up suit to pull out a pack of Kools.

 

She was dying. Probably would not last the year. Why not smoke em if you got em? Pen decided.

 

It was also time to get up and get the fuck out of this diner and never ever come back Pen thought as he threw 10 dollars down grabbed his jacket and briefcase and newspaper and made his way toward the door, with Mary's voice receding into the background and the train station only about half a mile away.

 

 

 

 

 

Faith

 

The green tongue of the monster was hard and spiky.  The rubbery grey lips and dark hard outer shell were open, completely exposed.

 

Ok. So my universal remote fell off the bed onto the hardwood floor and broke open. Big deal. Who needs TV?

 

Uh, I do.

 

I like it, thought Perry McSchmatter. Helps fight off the loneliness and sadness. Also the Yankees. The Yankees are real good this year.

 

So, ok. At 4pm let's get up and out of this comfortably cool man-cave with cold beer in the fridge and go take care of this remote "situation."

 

Running a magazine is actually work thought Perry and he sent his final work email for the afternoon and looked to the windowsill where a half-smoked joint beckoned.

 

"Swuuupt!" Inhale. "Pheeeeeewwww" exhale.

 

Grab the keys and into the elevator out the front door of the building and...

 

Perry was overwhelmed by the heat and humidity that made it feel like he was inside a laundry dryer. Baked and sweating profusely, Perry finally lucked into an expensive air conditioned yellow limo known as a NYC taxi cab.

 

"Where are you going, sir"

 

"77th street and Lex."

 

"Where are you from?"

 

"Here."

 

"I am from the holy land."

 

"Oh yeah? where's that?"

 

"Palestine."

 

"Oh yeah?, great. Good for you."

 

"Yes sir."

 

The cab driver had white hair and a moustache and didn't seem like that bad of a guy at all  but it was way too hot to converse so Perry decided to fill the empty space with the sound of his iphone. He punched up some reggae on Spotify--as he mused to himself that maybe someone should develop an app called "Potify."

 

"Get up! Stand Up!" sang Bob Marley and Perry too. As loud as he could because why not? Bob thought he could heal the world with his miraculous music and while he couldn't stop countries from fighting he did leave behind some amazing music to get stoned to.

 

"Do you have cash?" asked holy-land man.

 

"No, why do you ask?"

 

"The meter isn't taking credit cards right now."

 

"That's weird. No problem, we can just hit a bank or ATM near my  final destination."

 

"Yes sir, how about this bank over here?"

 

"K, be right back."

 

Perry jumped out of the back seat, closed the door, was assaulted by a hot, humid wave that almost knocked him down. Fuck it's hot out.

 

Of course, the bank the cabbie had chosen was closed.

 

Why? Why would it be closed? Made no sense.

 

Whatever.

 

Perry started to walk south toward his eventual destination. He scanned left and right as he walked searching desperately for any store or bank that had an ATM. Nothing for an entire block. OK, keep walking...slowly, no rush. Chill out. It's all good even though it is hot as fuck out. The meter had been turned off. Nothing on this block either. Suddenly it dawned on Perry he could simply skip out on the fare and just go attend to the business of replacing his broken remote that was nestled in the left pocket of his cargo pants.

 

Another block.

 

Nothing.

 

How is this possible? Is this a Twilight Zone episode? Did someone zap away all the ATMs?

 

What would Holy-Land Man think?

 

It must have been over 5 minutes.

 

OK keep going.

 

Oop! hey that looks like pay-dirt.

 

A Duane Reade.

 

They always have ATMs.

 

BINGO.

 

Perry took out 40 bucks.

 

As he left Duane Reade he pondered once again, should I really head back to where the cab left me-- 5 blocks away?

 

Let's just see if this guy truly is a man of faith.

 

One block, two, three, four...it must be almost 15 minutes I've been gone. He won't be there but just in case, one more block.

 

He was there!  Parked a little bit further up from the closed bank.

 

"Hey you're still here."

 

"Yes sir."

 

"I had to walk five blocks to find an ATM"

 

"Sorry, sir."

 

"Here's your money."

 

"Thank you sir...I will drive you to your destination now."

 

"You're not turning the meter back on are you?"

 

"No sir."

 

"Ok, thanks."

 

"Yes sir."

 

"Let me ask you...how much longer would you have waited for me."

 

"Maybe five minutes, sir"

 

"Did you stay because you believed in me...that I would come back?"

 

"I believe in God, sir."

 

"Gotcha. Ok, thanks."

 

Perry got out walked into the Spectrum store with the broken remote and told the sales rep that "the monster" had fallen on the floor and exploded. The sales representative walked away silently and came back and handed Perry a brand new remote wrapped in plastic. No fuss, no arguing. No cost. Free. Easy as could be.

 

"Do I need to buy batteries?," inquired Perry skeptical that anything in this world could be such an easy fix.

 

The rep smiled and nodded toward the remote.

 

In a separate clear pouch were two brand new double A batteries.

 

Wow. Go figure.

 

 

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