Storytime

Today I’m sharing a short story I wrote. It takes place in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in the Shadyside and Bloomfield neighborhoods, not far from Mr. Rogers real-life home. I never mention this in the story, but now you know.

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Walking into the post office I caught sight of myself in the heavy glass door.  I’d eaten off my lipstick and my brunette hair fell limp on my shoulders, the roots damp with humidity. My cotton blouse hung in crumpled folds left over from reading “The Tell-Tale Heart” on my bed.  I stopped for a moment with a hand on the cool metal handle, arrested by my reflection—a stranger to myself. 

            I looked dull, like a junker Mercedes.  People notice when you look sick and green or chic and polished, but never when you look dull.  Dull people are anonymous.

            A raspy voice startled me.  “Miss, are you the doorkeeper?”

            Turning I saw the blotchy, translucent hands of an old man carrying three cumbersome packages.  Two watery grayish eyes shaded by a charcoal fedora peeked over the top box.

            “Excuse me,” I said whipping open the door too fast. A red heat crept up my neck in frond-like streaks.  “Can I help you with your packages?”

            “That’s all right honey, thank you much,” he said. 

            I slid my letters into the out of town slot and left quickly, hoping to avoid anyone who might have noticed me staring at myself.

            In the car I turned full attention to my Saturday list, mentally mapping out the most efficient order: dry cleaners, grocery shopping, house cleaning.  I thought about the butchers at Dillman’s, last week I’d waited twenty-three minutes.

            In the grocery store I scanned the latest issue of Writer’s Digest for possible leads, finally shoving it in my basket under the bananas.  For my wedding two years earlier my father had given me an ultra-thin laptop with a card addressed to “His Little Writer!”  “I know you can do it,” the note had said.  I used it to write letters and organize my extensive recipe collection so any dish could be accessed calorically, alphabetically, or categorically.  With my husband working so much, I did little cooking, but I liked knowing I could access my collection so easily. 

            When we first moved here my husband used to tell people I was a free-lance writer, moonlighting as a receptionist until I got established.  I interrupted college just before the end to facilitate his internship, intending to return as soon as I could.

            I try to write something every Saturday off, but at the keyboard my thoughts stiffen into stock stories, headed by whichever hero stared in whatever action/adventure movie was playing at the mall’s cheap cinema where I go three times a week.  I think my husband suspects my laziness.  Three weeks ago at a party a new guy asked what I do.  I’d stammered slightly, but he spit out “receptionist” loud and clear and turned the talk to someone else. 

            By four o’clock I’d picked up milk, fruit and roast beef; waxed the kitchen floor, cleaned the oven and dropped off three dresses, three pairs of pants, four ties and six white shirts, remembering to point out the small ink stains.  At the cleaners Mrs. DeAngelo always grunts over the ink, asking in a thick New Jersey accent if all stockbrokers have as much trouble keeping clean as mine does.

            At 4:30 I sat on the couch feeling my body sink into the deep cushions with the relief of work finished.  My mind started on the laundry, calculating the amount of clean underwear and white socks left in the drawer.  It would have to be done soon.  He went through them fast—cut-throat racquetball twice a week, tennis three times and assorted team sports in season. 

            The night before I’d watched him play community basketball.  His tangerine tank top and shorts clung damply to his sweating, tan skin as he streaked between players.  Stealing the ball, he’d speed toward me, pivoting at the last second to stay in bounds.  His head twisted toward the court in slow motion, flinging sweat beads onto my arm. His hair gleamed almost white—the overhead lights reflected off individual strands making them appear to glow by themselves.  One of the other wives turned to me, “He’s fast and assertive, a real scrappy player.”  I nodded, wondering if she’d sensed his animal desire to win.