Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Sometimes, there’s just a vibe.
A woman walked toward him. Something about her brought up a smile. “Good afternoon,” he said. “How are you today?”
“I’m doing great. How are you?”
“I’m also doing great, thank you.”
“Good,” she answered.
They passed, going in opposite directions. Both looked back over their shoulder at the other, and smiled.
“Ready to leave?” he asked.
Nodding, walking past, she replied, “I just need to visit the bathroom real quick.”
“Hopefully, it’ll just be a wee wait.” He chuckled to himself, delighted and appalled by his silly play on words.
They’re an independent floof of independent means,
(At least, that’s how they see it, just between you and me).
Going where they want, doing as they wish,
Eating off of everything,
Especially your dish.
You can tell them otherwise,
And order them, “Don’t you dare.”
And they’ll wait until you go away,
And then do what they please.
And though you may get angry,
You might even get mad,
You know when they’re gone,
You’ll be very, very sad.
He’s in the coffee shop restroom. It has an electronic lock. Press in the code to enter. Each button beeps. Press another button when you’re inside to secure it. A red light means it’s locked.
He can hear someone entering the code. Alarm ticking up, he watches the door. Did he lock it?
His worry amuses him. What will they see? A white man sitting on a toilet. They’ll see his pale thighs. Oh, no!
Inner laughter rolls. It’s the one who walks in on him who will suffer at that sight.
I’m away from home, so I worry about my floofies. Per the instructions I left with the cats, I logged onto Zoom today at the appointed time. They immediately joined to purr and complain to me. A little of both. They said the weather isn’t bad the human caretaker I hire was doing ‘okay’.
Yeah, that’s fantasy. There wasn’t a Zoom con with the cats. I did call the caretaker and she said they’re doing great. Next best thing to being there with them.
It’s amazing. When he was a kid, he usually had two pairs of shoes, known as his ‘good’ shoes and his play shoes. Good shoes were also known as ‘dress-up’ shoes and ‘nice’ shoes. Play shoes became gym shoes and good shoes became school shoes. Dress shoes were added into the mix.
This trio — gym, or ‘tennis’ shoes, as they grew to be called — school shoes, dress shoes — were the status quo for years. A second pair of school shoes was added, along with cleated shoes for sports.
During his military years, he stayed with the triumvirate of shoes for his personal life. Gym shoes were still tennis shoes (though he didn’t play tennis), along with dress shoes and ‘jeans’ shoes. He began playing racquetball, so racquetball shoes were added to the mix. So were sandals. Then running shoes joined the shoe group. Military requirements dictated three more pairs of shoes: low-quarters (which were a super-shiny version of dress shoes), chukka boots, and combat (or paratrooper) boots. So it mostly stayed for his military career, except slippers were added through Christmas presents, and jungle boots and desert boots were added to fit his mission needs. The three pairs of military footwear were now five, because they’d done away with the chukkas.
Civilian life post military retirement brought on more shoe requirements. Aging helped. And shoe marketing. Now he added beach shoes, boating shoes, hiking shoes, walking shoes, and several pairs of ‘jeans’ shoes, also now called ‘casual’ shoes. There were work shoes, so he looked the role in the ‘business casual’ environment, but the military shoes were gone.
Going into marketing added more shoes to go with suits. Brown, gray, and black shoes were needed. He still had running and hiking shoes, along with walking shoes, jeans shoes, and casual work shoes. He was wearing cargo shorts frequently, and needed shoes to go with those. Moving from a pleasant year round clime to a snowy and wet environment brought up needs for wet weather and cold weather shoes.
Now he’s come to retirement. The suit shoes sit in boxes on shelves, but the rest have become so complex and numerous. He purged his shoes regularly, giving them away. His feet had widened and his feet’s needs had changed through the years, and that dictated changes as well.
Like so many other things, it’d become so very, very complicated. He wished for the days again when he had just two pairs of shoes. Given how life goes, he figured that circle would complete itself when he grew older.
Next: socks.
He’d been walking on a sidewalk, going up a hill, when a passing van’s music blasted him.
He knew that song — rock, yes — but his mind refused to give up the song’s title or the band’s name. Even more of the song was denied him. The same seven seconds kept swirling through his mental music stream.
It was going to tear up his mind. He needed to find enough to remember it or look it up. Based on his current rate of remembering, it’d probably be sometime on Friday or Saturday before he remembered.
If I could remember what I wanted to say –
It was something about the stuff in this drawer. It’s just –
I’ve never had any real use for this drawer. It was, you know…extra. So I started putting things in it. Odd stuff. All this was supposed to be temporary but a lot of it’s been in here for years. I don’t know what it’s all from. Screws leftover from things I installed. Never like to throw away screws. Never know when you’ll need a screw just like this one. Screwdriver, of course. I was looking for that. It’s supposed to be in my tool box. Or these pens. Old gum. Gum’s probably been in here ten years. Trident. My wife liked chewing it, so I kept some on hand for her. Don’t need it now. Cat toys. Don’t need that, either. Last cat I had was Jury. Big black cat. Sweetest animal you’ll ever meet. He died…how long ago was that? Shoelaces. A stone. I can almost remember why I kept this little stone. Look at it. Strange blue. Round, almost oval.
Everything in here was part of a moment. It all meant something to me when I put it in here. I can’t remember any of it.
I can’t even remember what it was that I wanted to tell you. I don’t even recall why I wanted to speak.
But there was something I wanted to say.
I just can’t remember. It feels like I should.
I remember a time –
It might have been in the sixties. Or maybe the seventies.
I think I was living in Pennsylvania then. Or Ohio.
And I was probably in –
Let me think.
I was born in 1956 so if it was in the sixties, I would have probably been thirteen or so.
So, no.
No, I think I was older than that.
So it must have been in the 1970s when this happened.
Yes, that’s right. I was in high school.
It was a sunny day.
Dad and I – he had his red Thunderbird then –
Oh, no, wait, he had the Monte Carlo, the burgundy Monte Carlo.
You know the model, the one with the swoopy lines, and the captain’s chairs?
He bought that new in 1974.
Had to be 1974 because I graduated that year, and I remember driving that car.
Then I left home.
Oh, and we were living in Virginia. That’s right.
I remember now. It’s all coming back.
It was ’74.
Anyway, Dad and I were in the car together, going somewhere.
I think it was a Sunday.
Yes, it must have been a Sunday, because he was off.
We were going to a restaurant for dinner.
Which surprised me. He suggested it. We never went out for dinner, he and I.
It was just us living together then.
Yes, I remember, we went to an Italian restaurant. He had the veal parm.
I don’t know what I had.
Anyway, let me finish.
We were in the Monte Carlo.
And he said, “What do you plan to do with your life?”
The question surprised me.
He never asked me these things.
Shrugging after a few seconds, I answered, “I don’t know.
“What did you plan to do with your life?”
We came to a red traffic light. He stopped the car behind the other cars.
We were the fourth car.
The car in front of us was a pickup truck.
Dad looked out the windshield straight ahead until the light turned green.
Then, as we started forward, he said, “Touché.”
Michael Seidel, writer 