I Believe In YesterdayAugust 5, 2011 at 10:45 PM | Posted in Fiction | 15 Comments
This is another in the series of flash fiction from Chuck Wendig’s site “Terrible Minds.” I’m really not sure what the theme is this week. We’re supposed to make bad stuff happen to our hero? Have you not read my other stories? Geez. Anyway, to see more and to check out the other entries, go shopping here:
Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: That Poor, Poor Protagonist
This seems to be all that I’m writing lately. But at least I’m writing. I have so many blog entries about my own life that I could have included…but I didn’t want anyone to cry today.
Lewis woke up with his hands on his testicles. That was normal. But this is what woke him up: He felt a lump. This was to be the highlight of his day.
That was the sound of his wife waking up. She would sit up and light a cigarette in one smooth motion. Today, she saw the clock. She was running late. She pounded on the bathroom door. “Hurry up in there, you sonovabitch! I have to get to work too, ya know!”
Quietly Lewis came out of the bathroom. His darling wife muttered to herself as she passed him. “You better not have stunk it up in there, goddammit.” Lewis watched her naked ass before she slammed the door shut. He thought of last night, when she agreed to get up on her knees for him. He knew it was so she wouldn’t have to look at him. *The feeling is mutual, bitch.*
As he slammed passionlessly into her from behind, he stared at the back of her head. Each thrust was a syllable in his inner monologue. “God…how…I…fuck…ing…hate…you…re…guts.”
He got his teenage daughter up for school. She had changed. Once the apple of his eye, she was now the center of her own maelstrom. He could no longer gently shake his baby awake. She would kick and scream and cuss and punch when she woke up. No matter what he did. From the doorway, he tossed a cup of water on her face and closed the door.
Now there was screaming and bitching coming from two locations. Lewis made his wife’s lunch, made his daughter’s, and then put a chicken leg in a baggie and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He went out to his car. Presently his daughter came out and got in the car. His wife came out the door and gave him the finger as she walked to her car.
He tried to engage his daughter in conversation, so she put her headphones on. Undeterred, he continued to ask about school and talk about upcoming events. When she got out of the car, she said, “You’re a dick, Dad. A complete tool.”
No matter how many cars you let go in front of you, the one that you didn’t let go will honk at you.
A luxury car was riding Lewis’ ass. The high-strung type A in the Mercedes was too important to be behind a fucking Honda. He rode Lewis, flashing his lights and honking his horn. *Christ, what does this guy want?* Lewis waved him on.
The turbo Mercedes gunned it and went around him close, forcing Lewis to dance with the shoulder. The guy in the Mercedes shouted, “ASSHOLE!” and threw an empty Jameson bottle out. It cracked the windshield, slid up, and fell in through the sunroof.
“What the hell?” As soon as Lewis looked down, a car behind him rammed into him.
Lewis pulled over to the shoulder. The part-time realtor/Mary K/Party Lite sales woman stopped right where she was. He went over to her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m going to have to let you go, Denise. The pervert that slammed on his brakes in front of me is trying to rape me now. Yeah, lunch. Okay.”
He tried to talk to her then, but she held up a finger and made another call. The police. He tried to convince her to pull over to the shoulder. She shot him with mace.
Lewis stumbled back and got hit by a car. More like a graze. A graze that broke his wrist. The car kept going.
Help finally arrived. The sympathetic female cop listened patiently to the woman’s story while she yanked Lewis by his broken wrist, put it behind him, threw him to the asphalt and handcuffed him. While she searched his car, she let the woman taze him gently, once or twice.
The bottle was bad, but the bottle of Ecstasy that fell out of his daughter’s book bag got him hauled to jail. A tow truck came to tow his car. Once the driver got a look at it, however, he put it in neutral and turned the wheel, and pushed it a little so it would roll down the embankment.
It was just county lock-up, so Lewis didn’t have to fear being anally raped. He did, however, have three homeless guys sit on him in the cell and shit on him.
At this point, the smile on his face started to waver a bit.
“Mr. Clasky! Make a phone call! Have someone pick you up.”
“I don’t have anyone to call.”
“Call your wife, Mr. Clasky.”
“Can’t I just walk home?”
“Why don’t you want to call your wife, Mr. Clasky?”
“Have you *met* my wife?”
“Can’t I just stay here?”
Out of sympathy the clerk made the call for him. She quietly hung up the phone. “Mr. Clasky—“
“There’s a bus stop right out front.”
Lewis got on the bus. As soon as he did, the bus driver got up and ran off the bus. “What the fuck?”
A voice behind him said, “Get up there and take the wheel. Drive.” He felt something cold and metallic on the back of his neck.
“Okay.” Lewis did as he was told. “Where to?”
The masked gunman said, “The airport. The first car rental lot you see.”
“Check.” Lewis felt oddly blissful. He started to hum, then quietly sing a song to himself.
“Hey, shut up.”
“All my troubles seemed so far away—
“Now it looks as—“
“I said shut up!”
“—though they’re here to stay…”
The gunman was watching Lewis, not where he was going.
Lewis turned to him. “I’m sorry about that. It’s my favorite song. And it just reminds that yesterday is the day—“
Lewis gunned the accelerator.
“Yesterday is the day I should have committed suicide.”
The gunman looked up in time to see the train.