Recycler

The man with the limp and his wife pulled their car along the curb, left it running, hazards on. Shuffling along he dragged a burlap sack behind him, its contents clinking against the bumps in the road. Flipping the tops up, he bent into the blue bins, digging around the plastic and cardboard, grabbing the glass and aluminum. Passing the material into his sack, the late sun reflected off a tin can and flashed into my eyes.

No. 145

Freshen Up

He took the same booth as always, in the sunroom of the Wendy’s, still not remodeled over the years. It took him back to grandmother trips: French fries that tasted like salted waffles when dipped in chocolate soft serve.

His eyes monitored the bathroom, flicking up from his laptop plugged into the wall, loaded job listings to scroll through that he ignored. 

The lock clicked and a man that looked familiar exited. He closed the laptop, packed his things, and ran for the door. Inside, a quick rinse: washcloth under the arms, electric razor on the neck, dabs of face wash rationed for weeks, a brush of the teeth. Afterward he felt human, looking job-ready; the self-pity ran down the drain with the soap. 

The familiar man had taken his booth. He found another outlet and began to job hunt again. The cashier behind the register stared at him, but did not move to say anything or confront him.

No. 130

Stalled

At the end of the date, Spencer and The Girl walked back to his car. He parked along a side road in Hollywood to save money and walked to the restaurant. She took a Waymo. The date had been without incident, positive or negative, and Spencer was surprised when she agreed to go back to his apartment. 

Coming up to his car, Spencer mumbled a quick phrase denigrating it: how busted; needs a wash; hand-me-down from his cousin. He inserted the key into the passenger door, opened it for her, knelt down and threw some papers and an empty bottle into the backseat. With an embarrassed smile, he avoided her eyes, then circled the car to the driver’s side. As he removed the steering lock, he turned and said: “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

He turned the key, and the engine sputtered before stalling. His heart rate quickened. “Sometimes it takes a few tries.”  He tried again, then again, then again. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll get a ride. Thank you for dinner.”

No. 106