101 Words

Ann’s father parked the car and took the phone out of her hands. “Good luck with your interview.”

Rolling her eyes, Ann stepped out of the car and walked inside. The manager was waiting at a table and waved her over.

“Good morning, Ann. You’re my first interview for the day. It’s nice to meet you.” Joyce glanced at the application. “Tell me, why would you like to work here?”

Ann’s eyes flashed toward the door and her confiscated phone. “My dad is making me get a job.”

Joyce blinked twice, and then smiled falsely. “We’ll call if we need you.”

“No!” She tossed her blonde hair and marched angrily away, the clop clop of heels on wood telegraphing her fury.

You’d think I’d asked her to torture puppies or renounce chocolate forever, when I had simply suggested—very kindly—that she change into something slightly less revealing for dinner with my boss and her husband. And perhaps remove a bit of the lipstick and eye shadow she must have applied with a spackling trowel.

“Honey,” I said, tapping tentatively. The response was a thunk as an unknown object (shoe? hairbrush?) struck the bedroom door.

Such is life when mothering a three-year-old!

The teenagers sat dejected beside a barren field.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Farming looks so easy,” they said, “in the game. But why doesn’t the food grow?”

“You need to work the land,” I replied. “Plough, plant, water. As my parents did.” As I did, before the farm failed. “And it takes time, unlike in the game.”

“How long?”

“Spring to Autumn.”

“We can’t harvest it today?”

I shook my head, remembering the heartbreak of losing my home and business, after my parents died. “Not in real life, or I’d still be doing it.” I sighed.

We all walked away, dejected.

Dew worms bulge on the sidewalks. Long and veiny. Their musk permeates the spring air. Darlene thinks of her personal trainer.

She’s walking to the gym, trying to ignore the worms squashed by tots in oversized rain gear. She focuses on her morning workout. The floor exercises, recumbent bike, her trainer’s evident manhood. Darlene’s lost 10 pounds in 2 weeks.

During today’s routine, Darlene’s trainer advocates a carb-free diet. “No pasta,” he proposes. “Your lips have slurped their last noodle.”

Heading homeward, a chill wind blows. Plump redbreasts bounce about with worms dangling from their beaks, content with all things wiggly.

The guy in the hotel gym wants to be a boxer. Running on the treadmill, he flicks a flurry of jabs and hooks. Then he turns the speed up all the way and sprints, sprints, sprints. His booming strides terrify the other guests. That is, until he trips and falls and the runaway belt slams him into the wall a foot behind the machine, pinning him in the narrow walking space. He absorbs a massive beating. A woman hops off her stairmaster to help. Here’s this guy trying to be a boxer and he loses his first fight to a treadmill.

He knew I was crazy, not cute crazy, but certifiable.

He swapped his wife and kids for a wild ride with me and now—just as I warned him—I’m bored with the ride.

He blocks the doorway.

“Can we talk? Don’t leave.”

I  hide a hammer behind my back. It smashed the Eros sculpture he bought me for my birthday.

“Please?”

I drop to the couch, hammer in the back of my belt.

He sits next to me, clears his throat, and reaches to take my hand.

I reach for the hammer. The only sure way to end this ride.