Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction (27 page)

The blonde giggled. “Mr. Jacobs called me into his office last week. If I miss another day, I’ll lose my job.” She pulled out a mirror and applied another coat of lipstick. “He said that fiasco with Richard in accounting was the final straw. I’m on probation till September.”

The brunette rolled her big blue eyes. “Bobby hates that band. He’d shoot me if I went. But it might be worth it.” For a moment, her voice had an ethereal quality. “The lead singer is gorgeous. And I heard he’s single again.” She blinked and assumed her normal demeanor. “We could drive. It’s only seven hours.”

The three women seemed to be considering the option. Margery took advantage of their silence. “Sorry I’m so late.”

“This is Margery,” Sandra said. “I service her copier at Green Grass Bank.”

The blonde offered her hand. “I’m Stella. And this,” she said, touching the brunette on the shoulder, “is Barb.”

“Nice to meet you,” Barb said. “We were just complaining. The Warning is in Seattle tomorrow night, and none of us can go.”

“That’s too bad,” Margery said. “My boyfriend’s one of their sound techs. I’m sure he could’ve gotten you backstage passes.”

Her gawking booth-mates turned to face her, their eyes sticky with envy.

Margery cocked her head and gave them a sad smile. “I’m sorry. Maybe next time?”

“Yeah,” Sandra sighed. “Next time.”

“What’s his name, again?” Barb asked, stirring her slushy pink drink.

Margery shifted in her chair. “Who? My boyfriend?” She glanced across the room. “Jake.”

“No,” Barb said. “The lead singer.”

“Oh,” Margery answered. “Chris Johns. What are you guys drinking tonight?”

“Long Island iced tea,” Sandra said, lighting another cigarette. “
They
always order strawberry daiquiris. I suppose you like that girly stuff, too.”

Margery stood. “I wonder what single-malt they carry?” She wove through the maze of patrons and tables toward the bar, returning moments later with two fingers of amber liquid in the bottom of a large glass. She sat down and took a tiny sip. “Cragganmore! God, I love this stuff,” she exhaled, warmth flowing all the way to her toes. “I can’t stay too long. I want to talk to Jake, see how the tour’s going. I’m meeting him tomorrow at the Home and Hearth in Seattle.”

“Lucky you,” Stella whined. “Tomorrow night, we’ll be sitting
right here while you’re hanging out with the Warning.” She swirled her daiquiri and made a pouty face.

“I promise not to enjoy it,” Margery answered, taking another taste of scotch.

From there, the conversation moved to the area’s best nail salons, then migrated to which donuts are hardest on your diet. When the topic became available men, Margery took it as her cue to go. “Thanks for including me tonight,” she said, handing a business card to Sandra. “My cell phone number’s on the back. Let’s do this again. Soon.”

Margery was beaming as she left Harry’s. She’d been trying to get together with Sandra for six months. Now, she was in. But as she paid the cab driver and unlocked her apartment, she began to worry.
Maybe the Warning thing was too much.
She stopped in front of the hall mirror. “And what if they’d said yes?” she ranted, glaring at her reflection. Those concerns vanished after an hour of mindless television, and she fell into deep sleep.

Friday morning, Margery awoke with the concert on her mind.
What was I thinking
? A knot tightened in her core. Groaning, she fought the urge to stay home. As the workday progressed without a service call from Sandra, Margery’s anxiety eased. At six in the evening, just as she pulled her low-cal lasagna from the microwave, her cell phone rang.

“Surprise,” Sandra said, sounding a little drunk. “We’re here… at the Home and Hearth. What room are you in?”

When Margery could breathe once again, she said, “What?”

“We all decided to do it,” Sandra chuckled. “When will we get another chance to meet the Warning?”

“Um.” Acid rose in Margery’s throat. “But…you said you couldn’t go. Or I would’ve—”

“You would’ve what?” Sandra cut in. “Where are you?”

“Jake and I had an argument,” Margery choked. “I’m sorry. I
stayed home.”

“Argh! What the—” Sandra hung up.

Margery flopped onto the couch. “Why can’t I stop lying?” she sobbed. “Never again,” she promised.

For the next hour, she hated herself. Then she decided Sandra didn’t deserve her friendship anyway.
I need ice cream.

Streetlights buzzed and flickered as Margery walked to the corner market. She plucked a half-gallon of Chocolate Death Threat from the freezer and went to the register. When she was second in line, everything stalled.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the cashier said to the man in front of her. “You’re three-o-one short.”

He rummaged through his pockets. “Just forget it.”

“No. Wait.” Margery handed the clerk a twenty. “I’ll get it this time.”

The man turned to her. “What’d you do? Win the lottery or somethin’?”

Margery smiled. “As a matter of fact…”

The stranger’s eyes flashed and he followed her out into the night.

Ginny Swart

K
eep quite still, lady, and you won’t be hurt.”

The man’s voice was low and quite pleasant, and for a moment Kelly thought someone was playing the fool. Perhaps Anna had left the patio door open and one of her friends had come in without knocking.

Then she saw the hard metallic glint of the gun in his hands and froze, almost spilling her coffee as her hand shook. She placed the mug quietly on the little table next to her, hoping he wouldn’t notice her movement.

Kelly sank down into the easy chair, crunched herself into a trembling ball, and covered her face in her hands. The thought of an armed robber had always terrified her. Although she felt a guilty stab of shame at her cowardice, she hoped he’d just concentrate on Anna and ignore her, small and scared in the corner of the room.

But Anna, besides being tall, blonde, and glamorous, was also a kung-fu expert and kept telling everyone that girls should learn to take care of themselves in a tight spot. Kelly hoped she could, now that the tight spot was in a corner of the living room with her.

She peered through the cracks between her fingers and watched in admiration as Anna slowly looked up from the coffee she was drinking and snapped, “What do you want?”

How does she stay so cool, wondered Kelly, whose own throat was as dry as a parrot’s cage, although the gun wasn’t
pointing in her direction.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Sweet Lips,” sneered the intruder. “Just hand over that diamond necklace.”

Diamond necklace? As far as Kelly knew, Anna was strictly a handmade-silver-pendant kind of girl, and she’d never seen her wear expensive bling of any sort.

“Forget it. Mike will be here any minute,” said Anna, imperceptibly edging closer. “He’ll deal with scum like you.”

Mike? She really thought Mike Barnes would be any use?

Mike was Anna’s latest and rather unimpressive boyfriend. He’d arrived on the scene some weeks before, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and talking enthusiastically about computers. Not the usual action man Anna went for. But he was an old college friend apparently, and after he’d taken Anna out to dinner at a smart restaurant she’d come home smiling like someone in love. She’d been out with him several times since then.

Kelly hadn’t liked the look of him, and she considered herself something of an expert when it came to judging a man’s character. There was something about Mike that put her off completely. Maybe it was his horrible hairstyle, parted in the middle and smoothed down with hair oil, or maybe it was his long earlobes. Long earlobes were a dead giveaway when it came to twisted personalities. And now Anna seemed to think this miserable excuse for a man would miraculously arrive and help her. How? Hit the intruder with a laptop?

“Let’s see your face, scum!” Unafraid, Anna switched on the chandelier, immediately bathing the room in bright light. The man with the gun stepped back, muttering a curse.

“Karl Matthews!” exclaimed Anna, shocked. “Is that you? My father’s oldest friend?”

Kelly was stunned. Karl had been to the house on many occasions. He looked after Anna’s trust fund and appeared totally
honest and upright, if a little dull. Now, behind a gun, he looked decidedly menacing.

“Your father’s dead and gone, Anna, but before he died he told me about the wall safe behind that big picture. And he told me what was in it.”

“You’re not touching the contents of that safe,” said Anna, defiant. “My mother’s jewels are irreplaceable.”

A safe? Kelly hadn’t known about any safe.

“Open it, Anna, just let him take what he wants,” whispered Kelly. “Your life’s more important than a few diamonds.”

“Give me the key,” snarled Karl. “I’ll count to five.”

“Or what?” said Anna, bending her knees slightly and positioning herself for what Kelly knew would be one of her powerful kung-fu kicks. She’s watched her practicing these around the house quite often, kicking over chairs and thumping her foot into the sofa.

“Or he’ll kill you, girl!” wept Kelly. “Don’t be stupid, give him the key!”

“One,” said Karl. “Two. Three…”

Anna leapt across the room and delivered a smashing kick to Karl’s jaw, dropping him like a stone. At the same time, the door burst open and Mike stood there, armed with what looked like a missile launcher. He’d lost the horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair now had that spiky, unkempt look that invites women to run their fingers through it.

“What kept you? Asked Anna casually. “Doesn’t the FBI teach you to be on time? You’re late for our dinner date.”

“Thanks for doing the necessary, Anna. We’ve been after Karl Matthews for weeks. He’s wanted for money laundering and fraud.”

Two men came in and carried the inert villain away. Mike turned to Anna, kissing her passionately. Kelly’s toes curled
with pleasure as she watched, smiling. All this time he’d been an undercover agent? Maybe Mike wasn’t such a wimp after all.

She listened until the familiar closing theme tune faded, then stood up and yawned. This was nearly the end of the season and if poor
Anna Peterson, P.I.
didn’t find happiness with Mike in next week’s episode, she’d have to wait until next year.

Kelly picked up her coffee. It was cold, but there was plenty of time to make another cup before the start of
American Idol.

John P. McCann

B
ob Grebble is my section supervisor. He’s a bitter loser. Bob eats little cans of stew and reads gun magazines. Management squeezes Bob to increase production while they cut resources. How typical of this place. I figure management wants Bob fired so they can hire a younger supervisor at a lower salary. (Actually, I know this for a fact. Only last week, I overheard Toad Woman discussing Bob’s severance with the comptroller.) Bob’s loss is my gain. I’m senior enough to inherit his job.

“Hey Prime Time, get your fat ass typing.”

“Certainly, Bob. I’ll just input the Lindquist report.”

(Ha! I’m not inputting jack. I’m writing this.)

“I want that report ASAP. Don’t make me write you up again.”

“Yes, Bob. Certainly.”

Go choke on a can of stew. And who says “ASAP” anymore? I’m tapping away, my keyboard making busy worklike sounds. I’m even humming as if content. Today I’m humming a medley of ‘80s songs: Cyndi Lauper, Yes, Run-DMC. Now I’ve settled on the Alan Parsons Project.

Actually, I am content, doing what I do best.

Thinking up fresh ideas.

My name is Walter Gobi. I like terrariums and pipe-organ music. I once downloaded an album featuring the Go-Go’s’ greatest hits played entirely on a baseball stadium organ. The hair on the back of my neck just stood up thinking about “Beatnik Beach.”

Anyway, Bob and the other office goblins here at Fairchild
Industries call me “Prime Time.” Once in the break room I boasted my fresh ideas would rocket me to televised fame. They mocked me and flipped tangerines in my direction. Dumb, exploited losers.

Because I’m 37 and live above a Studio City garage, tightly wound dolts like Bob Grebble think I’m a failure. Wrong! Without any lasting relationships, I’m free to be creative. I watch seven hours of TV a night and take extensive notes. And I don’t live alone. I have a gecko. I feed him crickets. Each cricket is called “Bob” or “Bobbie” or “Robert K. Grebble.” (I felt nervous typing that and looked up to find Bob. He’s arguing with Toad Woman, our department head.)