Flowers

Spencer stopped for flowers on his way to work. At the time he found this sensible; he had to go straight to the second date from his office, and, knowing rush hour, would feel pressured for time to stop after. As he pulled into the parking lot a realization hit him, and his stomach flipped upside down—he could not bear to bring the flowers into the office and set them on his desk. To field questions from his coworkers filled him with dread so that his cheeks turned red in anticipated embarrassment. No, he thought it better to leave them in his car.

There they sat baking in the heat. When he handed them to Jacqueline at the table, the petals had begun to wilt, and there were too few of them, having fallen off and littered the mats. He blushed when handing them to her and avoided her eyes, looking instead at the grey sidewalk. “I’m glad to see you again,” he said.

No. 143

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

Consolation

How sad, Spencer thought. Alone at the dive bar, quarter to midnight on a Tuesday. The lone bartender stood behind the counter, organizing the bottles, closing up for the night. Spencer needed a drink—his boss had died suddenly. The otherwise solid foundation of Spencer’s career began to crack like the ice atop a pond as Spring neared. 

The bartender’s phone began to ring. Spencer ignored it and nursed his drink, and the bartender kept cleaning behind the bar. Only the dull echo of the abandoned ring accompanied them.

No. 072

Invoice

Upon receiving the invoice for the repair, Spencer nearly lost his appetite. It arrived on time in a damaged box, a rip running the length of the cardboard. The total cost came out to a quarter of his monthly income. Credit cards already maxed, there was little he could do.

On Fridays, different departments in the office catered meetings. When these finished, messages went out to the rest of the building, so that no scraps of food went to waste. It became a ritual for Spencer to wait for these messages, and to take the free food as a reward for his patience and frugality. When he most needed financial reprieve, no such messages came. The office, in fact, was sparsely populated. Stomach rumbling, he arrived at a last resort.

Outside the office stood a sandwich and salad spot, a common choice for his coworkers. He knew they placed their online and mobile orders on a double-shelf, letters affixed to aid in finding your name. He knew, too, that no employee of the restaurant checked for a receipt. Do anything confidently and you can get away with it.

His watch flagged an elevated heart rate as he exited the restaurant. Tearing open the brown paper bag, a leafy green salad greeted him. The disappointment wasn’t strong enough to mask the emptiness in his stomach.

No. 051

Transfers

“Hello, my name is Spencer Greenwood, date of birth July 12, 1999. My primary care doctor ordered me some replacement parts for my pump, and they were shipped to a V.D.L. Enterprises warehouse, which is you guys. I want to know where it is, and—No, don’t transfer me. I’ve already been transferred four times. Please—Let me explain—I was traveling and damaged the reservoir on my pump, my primary doctor ordered me a replacement one, but did not send it to my home address. He sent it to your medical warehouse. I need to know that it arrived, and I need to make sure that it’s being sent to my correct address.—Yes.—Yes.—Do you have a tracking number?—And this has expected delivery on Wednesday?—Okay, because I cannot receive it after Wednesday.—Do you have a tracking number for me?—EightEightTwoThree….—Maybe let’s switch that to overnight. So it can arrive on Tuesday,  and even if it’s late it will arrive by evening Wednesday latest, when I need to switch it out.—Yes.—Yes.—July 12, 1999. The address is FourSevenEight….—Yes. Thank you. I need to receive the shipment by Wednesday, or I’ll need to go to the hospital. It was a horrible mix-up. I’ve already spoken with my doctor. Yes, he feels horrible, but, really, I feel even worse. Thank you for understanding and helping me out. Do you have a phone number so I can call back if there are any problems tomorrow?”

No. 045