August 12, 2020 - Entre oscuro y claro - Flash Fiction: 12

Flash Fiction: 12

At a bustop in front of a small restaurant. A man down on his luck attempts to get the attention of the crowd of six freezing souls waiting for the bus to pull up. Most, if not all of them, are heading to work across town. He looks at everybody but no one will look at him. He starts to speak.

“You can say my name is Xava. If that’s what you want. Or Salvador if you prefer to be proper. Either way, I’m the same guy. Jeans and a t-shirt wearing, sing of the cross at freeways, nachos from the ice-cream truck guy. Needs to get some food in his belly kinda guy. 

“I’m not worried about my name though. What I’d like to do is sell you this ring I have here. It has one diamond that’s a pretty good size. 

“Ma’am, you interested? Sir? Want a closer look?

“No need to step back. Don’t be scared. Jesus. You all jumped back like I got that Covid. But I don’t. I don’t. I don’t have a lot of things and right now I’d like to get some money for food. This ring is worth a good amount. All I want is $100….. I’ll take $50.”

Not one reply or even nod from those standing. He releases a long breath that sends a cloud of cold smoke out of his mask. Some shoots up around his nose.

One of the men standing is holding two coffees in a cardboard container. He’s holding a small book in his other hand and he’s looking at Xava with extreme disdain in his eyes. 

Xava catches the man’s eyes for a second and lets it sink in that this man hates him. 

Ring! Ring! A bike riding on the sidewalk startles Xava forcing him to jump out of the way. Knocking the coffee out of the disdainful man’s hand and splashing it on his khakis. The man doesn’t even say a word. He simply reaches back and smacks Xava so hard it sends the ring twirling down the sidewalk, off the curb and into the sewage drain. 

As the bus arrives and everyone gets on, Xava is left sitting on the floor rocking back and forth, in tears.

Meanwhile, inside the restaurant a woman and her child wait for Xava to return with money so they could eat.

August 03, 2020 - Overpass underpass - Flash Fiction: 3

Flash Fiction: 3

Facing too many choices, for someone who is not the sharpest tool in the shed, can be paralyzing.  Or to anybody for that matter. But I just close my eyes and I pick. I press four buttons and the machine starts to tumble towards life. A robotic fidgety arm selects a small record, lays it down, and a needle hits the groove to generate that familiar hiss out of the speakers.

TAH-pa-ta-PUM. ♪♫♪

As soon as the drum sound comes through the jukebox, “Esaaaa NOOOO!,” some dude howls from the darkness of the way-way-back of this joint in full lament. The sorrow in his voice triggers mine. “Esa rola noooo,” he pleads to the bulb hanging dimly over his booth. The bulb does not reply. He’s definitely on one. 

“I’m still heeeere♪♫♪, after telling you so looooong…♪♫♪,” says the Rock-Ola. The Notations record from the late 60’s hypnotized me straight to the bar to get another round: shot and a chaser.

This fucken song has me nodding to a rhythm that is simultaneously lifting me up and bringing me down. I don’t have a sense of direction. I just keep drinking and after a few I’m forming a strong argument in my head how memories can also paralyze you.

Later, I’m in the booth with the sad homie lamenting party. I’ve kept the songs going for a couple hours now. He hasn’t been able to mutter a complete sentence. But I just wanted a partner to be down in the dumps with. Round after round he keeps my misery company.

This jukebox has a golden selection but I still play that song a few more times just to see his reaction. Also because I think he loves it even if it hurts. Or because it hurts.

“Esos recuerdos…me matan…burble-blabber-bla,” says the homie. I nod.

Sitting next to him my drunken misery doesn’t look so bad.

“Want another one, homie?”

“Blurb-blah…blurb.”

I got chu bro.