Category Archives: Short Stories

When he got to the office, he parked his bike next to a newsstand, where some guy was selling daily downloads and stock reports. Grenshaw bought a stock report and scanned it on the elevator. Orange juice was doing well. Which meant the company was doing well, and he was doing well.

And so, Grenshaw had a smile on his face when he stepped through his office door and found Tommy standing at the window. “Tommy,” he said, wondering what the intern was doing in his office. He couldn’t imagine that Mary would have allowed him to just walk in. “What are you doing here?” he asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

“Hi, sir. I just wanted to talk with you quickly before I go.”

“Go?” Was Tommy quitting?

“Yes, sir, to the Marigold Café?”

“Oh, right.” Grenshaw pulled out a chair and motioned for Tommy to sit in it.

Tommy declined.

“Is this about adding the café to our account?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look, Tommy, I know this sort of thing may seem a little, I don’t know, ruthless?” He looked at Tommy to register his reaction. He couldn’t discern much. Tommy’s expression was blank. Grenshaw decided to change his strategy. “Tommy, back in the day, when my dad was working in plastics.”

“Your dad worked in plastics?” Most people were impressed by this fact.

“Yes.” Grenshaw took a second to soak up the admiration. “When he was working in plastics, it was everywhere. There was plastic in computers, there was plastic in shoes. It was in bikes, in chairs, in pencils. You’d buy a meal and you’d get plastic utensils and plastic dishes. You’d buy a toy for your nephew; it would be plastic, and it would come in a plastic container. In fact, everything came in plastic containers: candy, paper, clean water. And after you opened it up, you’d throw away the plastic.”

Tommy was listening intently.

“You’d throw the plastic away, and then you’d put it into a plastic bag in a plastic trash can.” Grenshaw walked to the window and peered down at the streets below. “You could really make some money back then.” Behind him, Grenshaw heard a woman clearing her throat. It was Mary.

She was standing in the doorway. “Everything alright, Mr. Grenshaw?”

“Of course,” he said, wondering why she was asking.

“Okay.” She looked perplexed.

Grenshaw tried to regain his train of thought as he turned toward Tommy, but when he discovered his office empty, he completely lost track of what he’d been saying. “Tommy?” he said quietly.

Outside his window, a video advertisement floated by. He heard a woman’s voice saying, “Have you been experiencing mood swings? Find yourself confused recently?” Alarmed, Grenshaw gazed at the ad. Tommy’s disappearance, the eyes in the alley, and now this ad, pinpointing his exact emotions – it was all too coincidental.

The woman winked. “Get your life right.” She smiled. “GCF Computers. Powered by the state of your mind.”

to be continued . . .

When Grenshaw got to his bike, he poured the juice in immediately. He got on his phone and dialed his secretary. “Mary. Grenshaw. Listen, put the intern on the phone.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Grenshaw,” Mary said. He waited for a half a minute and then heard Mary say, “Here he is, Mr. Grenshaw.”

“Hello?” A young man now spoke.

“Tommy.”

“It’s Thomas, sir.”

“Right. Listen, I need you to do something for me right away. I need you to find out who supplies Marigold Café with its orange juice.”

“Marigold Café. Okay. Where is that?”

“It’s on Third and Prospect. You writing this down?”

“Yes, sir. Marigold Café. Third and Prospect.”

“Yeah. Find out their supplier and then underbid them.”

“Underbid them?”

“Yeah, Tommy. The idea is to get a corner on the market. We underbid the competition, lose some money in the short run, but then we can jack up prices later.”

“I see, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

Grenshaw started up his bike and hopped on. The motor purred, and as the scent of orange juice filled the air, he took in his surroundings. This was the nice section of town, lined with expensive boutiques and restaurants. Next to the French restaurant he’d eaten at the previous night was an antique plastics shop. It advertised Tupperware in its windows. Next to that was a high-end computer store, selling wireless, glass computers and bearing the slogan, “Powered by your state of mind.”

Grenshaw took a deep breath. Today would be a good day, he decided. As he was about to pull out in to the street, he noticed the mug he’d gotten from Marigold Café lying on the ground next to his bike. It wouldn’t have taken much to get off his bike and pick up the mug, but he didn’t want to put forth the effort.

As he pulled away, he knocked the mug over. It broke.

He pulled out into the street and did a u-turn, pointing his bike toward the office and making a mental note to tell Tommy to take a new mug to the Marigold Café. As he drove off, he looked over his shoulder at the broken shards of the mug, but they were nowhere in sight. “That’s some efficient anti-litter technology,” he said to himself.

For some reason, he started thinking about the glowing pair of eyes he’d seen in the alley the night before.

to be continued. . .

That night, Grenshaw dreamed that he was in the Christmas day parade. As one of the most successful businessmen in the area, he could probably count on an invitation to the fast-approaching event; in that sense, his dream was realistic. However, he was riding an elephant, an unlikely scenario he recognized even in his dreaming: from his perch atop the elephant, he looked down, waving at the crowd and saying, “Well, this is hard to believe.”

The small people on the sidewalks below him looked horrified. “What did he say?” they asked each other. Grenshaw couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but he could hear their mutterings rise in volume and in irritation. Soon, one of them shouted, “Let’s do it!” And with that, the crowds stormed into the street, lifted up Grenshaw’s elephant, and carried the beast like ants carry away crumbs of food.

They carried Grenshaw and his elephants through the streets aimlessly, turning right then left, doubling back, crossing medians, venturing into dead end alleyways. Then they ventured to the water’s edge, and one of the little people shouted, “Let’s throw him in!” The crowd responded with a cheer.

Grenshaw woke up.

He sat up in bed and watched as mice scurried across the floor to hide in corners, under furniture, and God knows where else. There must have been fifteen of them. Most expensive condo in the downtown area and he had mice! How they could have gotten in or what they could be eating he had no idea. He did most of his eating at restaurants or at the office; he barely had a crumb in his kitchen.

With that thought in mind, Grenshaw decided to head out for breakfast. He left a note with the building manager, saying he expected the mouse problem to be solved by the evening, and he set out walking toward Nouveau Au Jous, the expensive restaurant where he had run out of juice the previous night.

On his way, he passed the alley where he had seen the glowing eyes. He glanced into it, wondering if he’d see the eyes again, but this time, all he saw were mice.

The smell of eggs and bacon coming from a breakfast diner down the street tore Grenshaw’s attention away from the alleyway. He followed his nose and grabbed a stool at the street bar. He ordered a sandwich and watched the bearded chef throw his food on the griddle. “You want something to drink?” the chef asked.

“Sure,” Grenshaw said. “What do you have?”

“We got fortified water, clean water, dirty water, coffee, and orange juice.”

Grenshaw “You’ve got orange juice?”

“We sure do, chief.”

“Who’s your supplier?” Grenshaw thought he had at least the city market.

“Who’s my what?”

“Nevermind. I’ll take a large juice to go.”

“Sure thing, chief. You got a mug?”

Grenshaw had left his mug with his bike. “Uh, no. I don’t. You got a ceramic one I can buy from you?”

The chef sized Grenshaw up. “Tell you what. You bring this one back to me tomorrow. How’s that sound, chief?”

“Sounds great.”

to be continued . . .

You couldn’t really blame Grenshaw for his actions that night. He had been at work for the past twelve hours, negotiating with stubborn buyers on a suitable price for his principal money-maker: orange juice. It had been a hell of a day, and he was exhausted. But it had also been a successful day, which is how he justified buying himself sesame-glazed chicken and a bottle of wine on his way home.

The restaurant – a high end place called Nouveau Au Jous – had some trouble fulfilling his wishes. No one had ordered real carryout from them in years. That sort of thing they left to the street vendors or burger joints, who could hand over the food directly, no dishes or napkins involved.

Eventually, Grenshaw offered to just buy the expensive plastic receptacle – Tupperware, they called it – and some utensils to go with the meal.

He walked out of the restaurant and got on his bike, looking forward to his brief ride home and a relaxing night of video clip browsing. But when he turned the key, the power light turned blue: he was out of juice.

Ironic, no? The region’s largest vendor of orange juice runs out of it on his ride home.

Swearing at himself, he started walking home with his wine and his chicken. Of course, it started raining ten minutes into his walk, so he ducked under an apartment awning to wait it out. Since there was no telling how long he’d be waiting, he started eating his dinner. He pulled the top off the Tupperware and dug into the chicken with zeal.

The first two bites were wonderful. The sesame glaze danced across his taste buds, and the warm meat recharged his drained body. He paused after his second bite, sighed with contentment, and gazed across the dark, rain-soaked cityscape, thinking that maybe the day hadn’t been so bad after all, that actually, it had been quite fulfilling.

But then he thought he saw a pair of eyes glowing in the dark alley across the street, and the sight startled him enough that he dropped his chicken.

“Damn it!” he shouted, anger flooding his body. He almost threw his bottle of wine on the ground, but he paused as he considered that it would just result in his feeling more sorry for himself.

And yet, there was something very satisfying about self-pity. He held the bottle over his head, poised to smash it on the ground and then wallow in his regret, but the rain stopped suddenly. He raised his mad eyes from the target he had been imagining on the pavement and muttered to himself, “screw it.”

He uncorked the wine and chugged half the bottle, then stood there squinting across the street into the dark alley. He threw the Tupperware and what remained of his wine toward the now-vanished pair of eyes and started walking home.

to be continued . . .

Calling Brinkley

As she reached for the phone, she hesitated momentarily and bit her lower lip, second-thinking her plan to call collect. If her mother accepted the charges, it might put her into less of a giving mood. So, yeah, she decided, don’t call collect. She’d been careful to consider how to go about making the call. She’d figured 3:00 would be best since her mom would be at work, excited about the recent boom in business, but during the afternoon lull so she wouldn’t be so stressed out.

All day, she’d rehearsed the conversation. It had gone so well in her imaginings: she would listen patiently to her mother ranting about her customers from Britain and Pennsylvania; she’d feign interest in the gossip – whose baby was having a baby, whose mother just died; and she’d willingly divulge a balanced account of her Austin experience, telling an amusing tale about Jackie’s cat and making sure to garner some sympathy by mentioning that everyone at work spoke Spanish so she couldn’t understand them and she was pretty sure they nicknamed her “the flake.” Then she would make the request.

In her rehearsals, it worked so well. But now, here she was, 30 seconds from making the call, and she had neglected a detail as fundamental as not calling collect. It shook her confidence. She momentarily decided she’d wait until tomorrow, but when she peered up at the calendar, she remembered tomorrow was a Friday and it was the 31st. The call couldn’t wait.

She picked up the phone and dialed the lodge. She held her breath as it rang two, three, four times.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answered.

“Uh, hi. This is, uh, Cassie Mitchell.” She intoned “Mitchell” like it was a question.

“Oh, hi Cassie! It’s Rhonda Miller. You’re probably trying to get ahold of your mom.”

“Um, yeah. Uh, hi Mrs. Miller,” Cassie stuttered. “Do you work at the lodge now?”

“Oh, no,” she replied. Cassie could picture her gesturing as she spoke. “See, the lodge just changed its number to 870-WOODPECK, so Marvin got the lodge’s old number so we’d get all those outta-towners calling for the lodge and we could tell “˜em about the Ivory-Billed Burger. We just tell “˜em to come on in and try it when they’re in town, then we give “˜em the lodge’s new number.”

“Wow,” Cassie said politely. “That’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, we get twice as many calls now.”

“So the lodge’s new number is 870-WOODPECK?”

“Yep. Clever, huh?”

“Yeah.” She hesitated. “But that’s eight numbers.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Well, I mean, normally a phone number is seven numbers, right?”

“Is it? Never occurred to me.” She paused briefly. “Why, you’re right! College must be doin’ you good.” She laughed.

“Oh, I’m not in college,” Cassie replied too quickly.

“Really? I thought you and Jackie LaFarge were both at the University of Texas.”

She considered lying, saying she was indeed in school at Texas or maybe not at UT but in some community college. But nothing really fit with her “I’m not in college” disclosure. “No,” she began, resigning herself to the truth. “Jackie’s in school here, but I’m just working.”

“Really? Hmm. That’s strange.” Cassie guessed correctly that Mrs. Miller was currently trying to reconcile this version of reality with Cassie’s mom’s story about why she was in Austin. “So where are you workin’?”

Cassie nervously looked at the clock on the wall. If this conversation dragged on much longer, she’d miss out on her small window of opportunity to make the request. But if she cut it off too soon, Mrs. Miller would be armed with some scandalous gossip. “Um,” she started, “I work at a hotel.”

“Oh! Just like your mama! Apple doesn’t fall far, does it?”

Cassie suspected she may have just been insulted, but she wasn’t sure. “Yeah,” she said, drawing out the “yeah” so it had just a hint of sarcasm, in case it needed to be taken as a retort.

“You like it?”

“It’s alright. Most of the people I work with speak Spanish.” Maybe if she could get Mrs. Miller to feel sorry for her, she could save some face. “They call me la flaka, which I think means “˜the flake.'”

“Now why would they call you “˜the flake’?”

“Cuz I forget towels and stuff every once in a while.”

“Well, we all know how good those Mexicans work, don’t we?”

Cassie did know. In fact, she’d been so impressed by her co-workers, she once confided to Jackie that “everyone says they’re lazy, but it’s not true at all.” For a second, she thought Mrs. Miller was consoling her – as if to say, “well, you can’t compete with all-stars.” But then she remembered where she was from. “Actually,” she began, but censored what she wanted to say – that’s why we left, you know; that’s why everyone leaves Brinkley; we wanted to not be so narrow-minded. “I guess I am a little flakey.”

“Oh, honey, don’t sell yourself short.” Jackie had said the same thing to her just two days ago. The previous weekend, they had gone out with a couple of sophomore guys down to an expensive club on 6th Street. They left around midnight and started walking east, past the pawn shops underneath the highway and into a sketchy neighborhood. One of the guys, Jason, claimed there was a college over in that area and that he knew a guy who was throwing an “after-bar,” he called it. But Cassie doubted him. “College neighborhoods don’t look like this,” she whispered to Jackie. And when they passed a storefront with a dilapidated sign that read “Mercadito,” she nudged Jackie and pointed discreetly.

The boys tried to talk them into walking just a bit farther, but the girls wouldn’t have it. In the days that followed, both boys called for Jackie, but Cassie was apparently off their list. “Don’t worry,” Jackie said, “they’re jerks. I’m not gonna call them back.”

“I know,” Cassie pouted, “but you’re still more fun than me and prettier and smarter.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Jackie protested, “we both know you’re way smarter and prettier than me. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Cassie?” Mrs. Miller asked. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Cassie said. “Sorry. Just remembering something I had to do.”

Last night, as they were sitting on their couch brainstorming Cassie’s predicament, Jackie had burst out excitedly, “Ooh, I know what you should do!”

“And what’s that?” Mrs. Miller inquired.

Jackie had leaned toward Cassie with a mischievous grin. “You should call your mom and be like, “˜Mom, I’m pregnant. The father just flew back to Jamaica and I lost my job at the hotel.'”

“Um,” Cassie said to Mrs. Miller, “it’s nothing. I just kinda have a problem.”

“And then,” Jackie had said, “when she’s freaking out, you can be like, “˜just kidding. Everything’s fine. I just need 200 dollars for rent.'”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Miller sympathized. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“A girl in one of my classes said she did that to her father and he was so relieved he was like, “˜okay, here’s $300. Just promise me you won’t ever actually do that.'”

“Yeah,” Cassie said. Mrs. Miller went silent. Cassie could picture her holding her hand over her mouth. “And I need $200 for an abortion.” The words escaped her like a handful of frogs.

“Oh, honey, you don’t want to do that.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Miller. I shouldn’t have told you.” Rhonda Miller couldn’t have known what Cassie actually meant by these words. Two hundred dollars was much easier to come by these days, with the birdwatchers coming in to town to see this great big extinct woodpecker. Of course, Joanne Mitchell should have had easy access to that amount with business at the lodge being so good, but poor girl. How could you tell your mom you need $200 for an abortion?

“Don’t worry, Cassie, I’ll keep your secret,” Rhonda announced. “Listen, when do you need this money by?”

“Friday.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, dear.”

“There aren’t many people here I can trust.” As soon as she said it, Cassie realized it was true. Austin was not home. Cassie heard Rhonda Miller arranging to wire her $200, but the voice was muddled, like it was traveling through a string and a paper cup.

By the time she hung up, she felt nauseous. She wanted to vomit, to exorcise the lie she had given birth to, but at the same time, she felt hollow, like she had just aborted a fetus. And in a sense, she had.

She never felt closer to her mother.