Short Story Practicum

It certainly did not cross Carver’s mind that he was about ambushed as he trudged into the corner store off 5th and Rochester.

Routine at this point, he hobbled over to Sam’s Grocery every Tuesday morning for a simple list: eggs, half and half, a bag of Doritos, a Mexican Coke. Carver, being in his seventies, had done this almost every Tuesday for the past thirty years, save for two occasions: his wedding day (a blustery Tuesday in Northern Virginia), and Jury duty (the most painstaking six hours he had experienced since the drone of his English professor’s voice his senior year at Bethesda). Every counter clerk knew him by his very audible grumble as he opened the chimed front door and headed for the refrigerated section, to the right.

Today— Tuesday—he was already on edge. The morning had begun: his hamstring cramped, his favorite green button-up had not been washed, and the toothbrush he had been hoarding for over a year had fallen in the toilet (good riddance—but don’t tell him I said so).

To make things worse, the neighbors had knocked on the screen door with a pan of baked goods “from the local children’s bake sale.” For one thing, Carver hated making any sort of chitchat, especially with the likes of Donna from down the road. He also hated round circles, and here before him lay 35 perfectly round sugar cookies, in the perfectly round, circular pan.

And he did not warm to days that fell out of order before he had had his coffee and one allotted 8 AM cigarette (wife’s orders) (on the balcony, next to the pigeon nest that adorned his neighbor's shingled roof). Dressed in painter’s trousers, scuffed with an off-blue hue, with his second best shirt (red button down, small pocket on the front, slightly too tight on his full stomach), and a Mets baseball cap, he was the most nicely dressed, utterly furious, egregious old person Redwood Lane had ever laid eyes on.

As the door swung into Sam’s, Carver was immediately awakened from his bad morning dream and plunged into a turbulent nightmare. Frozen, feet glued to the muddy mat at the front entrance, fear began to rise in his chest. His shoulder blades stiffened, his jaw hardened, and the old hip that teased of a health emergency began to quiver. Tears welled up beneath his wrinkled eyelids, and his poorly shaven mustache itched. Slowly, he placed one hand on the collar of his coat, fitting his thumb and forefinger around the cotton applique of the buttonhole near his upper chest. The grumble he entered the shop every Tuesday was suddenly choked back down.

Elaine stood before him. A grin was slapped over her large, bright face.

The fear settled, and in its place came a miserly frustration. He was perturbed, and quite frankly, a little pissed off.

The door shut behind him.

Elaine, his wife Geraldey (Gerry)’s best friend, lived four houses down in the cul-de-sac across from their home. Elaine had been Gerry’s close companion for over forty years and came over on the last Sunday of every month to bring her “famous” potato bake, fluff their couch pillows, and spill red wine all over the nice white tablecloth like clockwork.

Elaine was loud. Elaine was chatty. Elaine loved to gossip. She had a way of talking about the same person, or news story, for multiple hours. She did not stop. Sunday dinners were never over before midnight, held up by her gaping mouth conversing in ear-shattering circles.

And now, here, Elaine was standing in his Tuesday morning corner store, where he talked to no one and had total quiet (except, of course, for the AM radio blaring the ballgame over scratchy, overused, Sony speakers). There was nowhere for him to run.

To anyone else, this situation would be painless. Everyone, must, at some point in the day, make small talk with someone they do not like. It is just how life is. To anyone else, the path through is to suck it up; ask a couple questions, flash a pained smile, and make up some excuse about “getting back to the missus”. There was no path through for Carver today; grumpy, senile, and opinionated as he was, he had no shred of casual nicety to give Elaine at 9:15 in Sam’s Grocery.

Elaine immediately made eye contact and beelined toward him, beginning to share some news about the Gaines’ newest garage addition before she even reached him. A mile a minute, her voice carried over the speaker crackle. She had her target, he was a poor deer.

He had a heart attack as soon as she was close enough to allow for her spit to sprinkle from her mouth and onto his cheeks. Just fell to the floor, crumpled, Mets hat and all. Splat onto the ground.

Well, almost. He had a heart attack, but it was purely for show. Fake, if you will. A magician’s closing act. In a moment of epiphany, he decided that the only way to escape the piercing annoyance of the voice of his wife’s best friend was to simply pretend he was about to die. It was not far off from the truth, a conversation with her was the closest he got to death every month.

And so he collapsed, convulsed, shouting for an ambulance in short, breathy, intervals. He tried to think about heart attacks he had seen on TV, in cop shows, or in medical documentaries. He remembered them clutching their chest, eyes rolling to the back of their head, mouths wide open with pain. Theatrical masterpieces. Emulating as best he could, though the pure scene he knew he was making did make him feel a bit self-conscious, he writhed and slithered on the tile floor.

Elaine, aghast, ran out the front door to call Gerry. Carver knew that she would be too interested in being the first person to share the gossip of his alleged heart attack in the canned foods aisle, that she would not call the police first. Or am ambulance. He had some time.

She ran all the way to the back of the parking lot and pulled open her car door to sit inside.

Far enough for Carver. Immediately halting his grand exit, he got up, dusted the knees of his pants, and went straight for the refrigerated section to the right. Grabbed eggs, half and half, a Mexican Coke, and the Nacho Doritos by the counter.

And out he went, fast enough for Elaine not to chase after him. After all, he was old and slower, but he was quicker on his feet than her, and that was all that really mattered.

At the stop light, he opened the Coke and took a swig. Reached into his breast pocket for the morning cigarette, and cupped it between his hands. The flame touched it gently, and it began to glow.

He smirked. He crossed the road.