Doormat

            Another story in progress. the theme suggested by co-workers of mine.

            Into each life some rain must fall, observed Wadsworth. But no one knew that better than Matthew Doerr. At 51 years of age, he’d yet to experience one day without deluge. Picked on as a child, under- or unemployed in young  life, now twice divorced and crushing the scale at over 300 pounds, Doerr was soaked to the skin.

            “Mom!” he wailed, tossing his bags toward his bed and collapsing into the Partridge Family-themed beanbag chair his mother had never removed from his bedroom, “Is there any ice cream?”

            “I don’t think so, dear,” came the reply from downstairs.

            He let his chins fall against his chest. Moving back home wasn’t going to be the ray of sunshine for which he’d so long hoped.

(To be continued)

Overheard

McDonald’s Family Restaurant

Glendale, Calif.

Oct. 14, 2011

12:17 p.m.

The loud waves of static and country twang normally bludgeoning us from speakers in the ceiling are gone. Management has finally gotten the message: The intermittent warbling of Porter Wagoner isn’t what this population of Armenians and speakers of Spanish as a first language wants to hear while eating.

Check that: Management has merely turned the volume down. Between bites we hear what sounds like people whispering about us from the next room.

A woman sits hunched in the red plastic booth before mine. She stares blankly at the table as she chews. The motion is slow, like a cow’s, the upper plate of teeth grinding her quarter pounder with cheese against the lower.

Suddenly a brown paper bag is heaved onto her table. It lands with a thud, as though filled with sod. Without a word, a similar-looking woman – her sister? – lumbers past, making her way toward the counter.

A third sister, just as bovine in appearance, soon arrives. She slides heavily into the booth and sets down her tray. “My blood sugar’s low. I gotta eat,” says the first sister, explaining why she’s already begun to dig in.

At last, the sister who announced her presence by whipping a grocery bag into their booth reappears. She doesn’t see her sack. “Where’d you put my shit?” she demands.

And here we have the only words spoken, as the three eat in complete silence for an hour, each staring at the table beneath her elbow. Finally the three struggle to their feet, look at their iPhones, and shuffle out to the parking lot.

Artwork by John T. Quinn III

Picture This

          Here's an exceprt from a story in progress. In this piece, a woman discovers that finding her place in life is no laughing matter. 

                There were no pictures of Marie on her sister’s mantel. There wasn’t a single one in the house. If it were true that we cradled those we loved in little wooden frames, then Marie’s ranking was lower than that of her sister’s cat, who was represented twice.

                In keeping with Los Angeles tradition, Marie’s sister and her husband had over a dozen photos of themselves about the premises. There was even an exquisite painting of the pair above the fireplace. It was no wonder, really; they were a stunning couple, with their movie-star looks and winning smiles.

               

                Their kids were no less dazzling. The house was home to more than a few pictures of them, as well. Marie had to admit that even the cat had the look of a matinee idol.

                Still, she couldn’t help but feel slighted. After all, she was careful to have current pictures of her sister and her family on display in her own apartment. Shouldn’t they do the same?

                Marie wouldn’t confront her sister over the situation. She couldn’t. To even broach the subject was out of the question. The wrong – if it could even be called that – would doubtless immediately be corrected, but it would be done out of obligation, not regard.

                So Marie secreted photos of herself into the house. Here she was, sitting on Santa’s lap just last Christmas, at 40 years of age. Here were she and her sister at their high school winter formal. How the family would laugh months from now, when Marie’s picture was finally discovered. What a hoot was the stunt.

                But no matter how deeply she hid herself in her sister’s forest of frames, her photo was found in days. It was sometimes found in hours. On her next visit she’d notice her offering lying face down upon the table. “Oh, you came across my little joke,” she’d say, and the thing would be handed back, big laughs all around.

                “You need to get yourself some outside interests,” Marie’s friend Stephanie told her one day over coffee.

                “Oh, come on, that’s funny. You don’t think I need my own TV show?”

                “What you need is a life. These people don’t care about you.”

(To be continued)