The Buffalo Nickel Five Stories of Short Fiction

by Lance Allen

  The rain had been off and on for an hour or so as we weaved through the back roads of town, passing a paper bag wrapped bottle of hooch. John was still stammering on about the Sox and how they were going to be bested by the rotation in Tampa Bay.

  They have Hellickson and that other kid. And Price oh man Price. He grew up quick in '08. Now he knows who he is and is going to deliver. The Sox will be lucky to get to 90 wins. But it still won't be enough. And don't get me started with the Stanks. I hate them just as much as usual but they're old. Still good, but old. Not the collection of juiced All-Stars from ten years ago.

  I remember headlights and the bottle slipping from his hand. I reached to grab the bottle before it spilled. Then I saw her.

  ***

  I came to pick you up, I couldn't help him. For that I cry and it rains. My tears. You are important. So was he. But his importance has been signified. And his time has come to pass. A stepping stone. A friend. But a means to an end. It is the natural order of things. We all have our role to play. Yours continues. His will be repeated by someone else, somewhere else. But not now. Now you rest. And listen.

  I didn't want to go back to school. Bab's told me I had to. She said the boys in this world are not worth their weight. And a girl needs to be mindful of where her next meal is coming from. What does she know? She never worked. My father always took care of her. What if I wanted someone to take care for me? Isn't that my choice?

  She sees my eyes open, staring as if a ghost had appeared in a dark room. She continues.

  Thanks for stopping. And thanks for the blanket.

  Were you just going to stand there all night?

  I didn't figure on time. It's late and raining. You would show sooner than later.

  I killed my best friend

  I know. I read the papers.

  Are you scared I might kill you?

  Not really. It wasn't your fault.

  I was driving. Of course it was my fault.

  Just because the Book says 18's old enough to die doesn't mean you're old enough to know better. And maybe that's the point.

  ***

  When we were 14 he told me he wanted Home Sweet Home played at his funeral. I said that’s stupid, old people don’t like Motley Cru. He agreed but offered I do.

  That's who he was. Anyway. I talked the preacher into letting me play Home Sweet Home after the Eulogy. Probably the worst four minutes and two seconds of my life. Vince Neill killed one of his buddies in a drunken driving accident. He got off too. I sobbed in my hands as the music played. Ashamed for what had happened, more so the handcuffs on my wrists.

  When the song ended and my pity expired, I dried my eyes on the sleeve of my suit coat. I locked eyes with John's father. The eyes never lie. He wished me dead. Like his boy. Then a blink, his eyes averted. He bowed in prayer. I never saw him again.

  But I see John everyday. That's why I am out here. Driving. I'm hoping I will turn a corner and see him standing there. I can pick him up and we can continue living this life, together. He was my best friend. It was my fault. But he still won't let me have the guilt.

  ***

  After supper, I lie on the couch and fall asleep. I am standing next to him in the road. His body ejected through the windshield landing face down in the road, about twenty feet from the tree stump I hit. As I watch him bleed to death, I pull a gun from my coat pocket, place the muzzle against my temple and pull the trigger. My head explodes. I see this: my life ejecting forcibly from my mouth and left ear.

  John sees it too. He stands and walks over to where I am standing. He kneels to the ground and picks up the pieces of my head and carefully puts them back: my tongue; my teeth; my eyes; my left ear. He wipes the gore from my face. Then he holds me close.

  I don’t blame you. You shouldn’t either.

  ***

  A sense of revulsion rises in my stomach. I pull the car to the shoulder and open the door just as the vomit pours from my mouth. But what piles are not bits of food and strands of saliva, but shards of glass. As I wretch, the spewing pieces begin to take form. The last heave hurts. My shoulders rise and spasm locked in a cramp. I scream as my stomach lurches upward but only dryness leaks out. I stare in disbelief. I am lying at my feet, opaque, still, dripping vomit.

  ***

  Have you seen me somewhere before? Your eyes tell me so. I am sorry I do not remember. I wish I did. Their story is strange and lovely. I’d like you to tell it to me someday. Would you? I even want to hear about her and of him. You can tell me anything. I won’t lie; I might have heard it before. But I want you to tell it. Someday. When you are ready.

  ***

  It wasn’t just John that died that day. Back when I was younger and more fortunate. John was taken away and I had something to do with that, I hadn’t set out to kill him. It just happened. We were young. He loved baseball. I drove my car everywhere. Seems fitting I guess. But I died too. And no body is going to remember that. I will.

  Yesterday

  A half empty French press stands tall upon the table. Two mugs, whose contents have grown cold and stale, hold vigil on either ends of the short dinette. Tissues, damp with sadness, lay crumpled upon the floor. Streaks, like tears shed from crying eyes, stain the far wall, a shattered vase and wilting flowers lay crushed beneath. A car horn sounds in the distance; birds chirp from tress in the yard; a new day begins in earnest.

  ***

  I asked you to be there, she said.

  I told you I wouldn’t be able to, he said.

  What’s your excuse this time, she asked?

  I have no excuses. I’ve already explained myself, he answered.

  So that’s how it goes, she questioned, adamantly?

  I think you know that already, he replied.

  ***

  He was so charming when we met. The circumstances were accidental, but impressionable. I had rushed out of my apartment that morning, running behind due to a run in my stocking. I noticed the run as I was chasing lint down the hallway with a stick vacuum. I hurried into the bedroom to retrieve a new pair, hastily pulling off the old pair, just as hastily yanking on the new pair, careful this time not to catch a nail.

  I no sooner ran by the doorman that the city bus came into view. I threw a frenzied hand into the air, the one clutching a banana, and waived like a lunatic. My efforts were more for the trigger in my brain that signaled I was late and needed to overcome all odds to ensure my day started out on the right path than for the bus that would eventually be stopping for the four other people already waiting at the bus stop. I pulled into line, frazzled, winded and a bit blushed. A great start, I thought.

  As I ascended the steps of the bus, I had the sickening realization the banana was not my bus pass and I was without money for the bus fare. A mumble became a stutter which turned to tears as I embarrassingly asked the driver for a break and a promise to pay later. His response was rehearsed and standard. A long arm ended with a pointing finger bringing my attention to the sign saying no fare no ride no exceptions. I lowered my head as if I had been scolded by the principle and began to turn when I heard a clinking of coins in the turnstile and calm voice say, this one is on me.

  ***

  She always talks about the time on the bus when she got on with a banana and no money. It was cute, but I was just being nice. Okay I was trying to impress a beautiful woman suggesting that nice guys do exist. I wasn’t but I could demonstrate some empathy and help out in time of need. That’s what she remembers about us meeting and thinking was pretty special. Maybe it was and maybe it was just an easy way to talk about a meeting that was more by chance than a deliberate act. The girl meets boy story goes over well with just about everyone. And yeah sure I could go along with it. I guess but for me it was just the beginning not the foundation, not the reason I kept coming back.

  I’m sure no one ever asked before, how or why exactly I found myself in a relationship with her, probably no one really cared. And if I had given the usual stumbling bumbling
moment that would bring about a laugh and a smile I could have gone on with my day. But that never happened. So I share the day I felt she was more than just the girl from the bus; more than just the woman in the photograph. She was the equal and opposite of my chaos; the raft in my ocean. Or at least she was.

  A moment frozen in time, paints a picture of a girl curled up in bed sick with the flu. She was a real mess: fever, sweats the whole nasty deal. Yet as I sat on her bedside and swept the matted hair from her face I saw the fragility behind her glossy eyes, full of exhaustion and discomfort. She tried to smile in her way, flashing a sign of appeasement, but a cough over took her and she almost gagged. I pulled the covers up to her chin, stared into those lost empty eyes and gently kissed her forehead. I was in love.

  ***

  At Autumnfest that year, when I excused myself to the bathroom, leaving him sitting comfortably on a park bench, our tale begins to unfold. I’ve gone over this moment countless times in my head and cannot begin to imagine what happened to so drastically change him but I swear things were never the same after that moment. His eyes were red and his cheeks blushed. I thought it odd at first but after I sat next to him he remained staring off into the crowd neither looking at me nor saying anything. After a moment of awkward silence I asked him if everything was okay. He shrugged.

  Do you feel all right?

  Yes I am fine. Just tired is all.

  What should we do now?

  Go home I guess.

  We walked back to the car in absolute silence; he strode a pace or two in front of me. We had always held hands. Well almost always. But in that situation it would not have been strange if we had been. But we weren’t. I chide myself sometimes for not asking more, probing, but I didn’t. Something happened. He instantly became a stranger to me. And I didn’t know why.

  ***

  I saw my father and a little kid they were walking hand in hand. The kid’s eyes were wide and full of excitement. A big puff of cotton candy was in his other hand. My dad looked overjoyed, full of pride. The way a father should look. Not distracted by business deals, or taxes or football. An admiration only a father and son can feel. But it wasn’t my father; it didn’t even look like him.

  Son, Daddy has to go away for a while.

  When will you be back? Tomorrow?

  Not tomorrow son. I hope you can forgive me.

  Daddy I don’t understand.

  I hope you never do.

  I’d seen him before, in a crowd. He usually walked with other kids. My father was a good man, I say he was. It makes it easier. I’m not sure why that day at Autumnfest took me down so far. And I’m not sure why I chose to isolate myself from her. I should have just said something. But I didn’t. And now she’s gone.

  ***

  I think of him often, I wonder what became of those sad eyes I last saw, vacant and alone. There was this speckle of light, a gleam in his eye. He would smile wide and cascade a flow of emotion; I was smitten. But in the end he just radiated melancholy. I couldn’t reach him. But I barely tried. And for that I’m sorry.

  How are you?

  I’m well.

  Have you been on vacation?

  No, mostly I work. Keep busy. It’s for the best.

  I went to the beach. The sun was warm and the sea was cool. I walked in the water and thought about how things ended. I began to cry.

  I’m sorry.

  When I think of him I think of all the things I would say, but couldn’t, didn’t. I think of what could have been if I had just pressed the issue some. Those deep seeded aspects of who we are can be fearsome and daunting. We can all relate. I wish I had done something to show him I understood what real feelings are. Show him a side of me. Why didn’t I? I just didn’t.

  ***

  I don’t ride the bus anymore. The fear of seeing her is too great. I walked away from something that had been real; something true. I honestly believe she cared for me; could have cared for me. I pulled away when I should have been pulling close. I wish I hadn’t done that. I should have told her my father walked out on me. I should have told her I hated flowers. I should have told her why I don’t drink coffee.

  When I was a kid, I would sit under the small table in the kitchen while my parents sat and drank coffee together. I would listen to them share things about their lives, things I didn’t understand. I guess I didn’t need to know what they were talking about just that they were talking. Their voices were comforting. I played with small cars under that table while they shared their time together.

  What happened?

  I’m not sure. They just stopped sitting together. They would stand at opposite ends of the room and talk in low voices. My father would look out the window while he spoke. My mother would answer, staring at the floor. She almost always had a tissue in her hand.

  Why was she crying?

  I don’t remember what they spoke about. I just remember sitting under the table wishing they would sit back down and talk like they used to talk. I wished they would sit and drink coffee and talk in warm soft voices the way they did before.

  When did they stop talking?

  My father brought home flowers. They were all kinds: yellows and reds and oranges. There were leafy greens and buds of white. The arrangement was in a large glass vase. My mother cried when he placed them on the table. I guess she didn’t want them. She threw them across the room and the vase exploded. I was under the table. It was the last time my mother and father spoke to each other together. The last time I sat under the small table playing with my small cars.

  ***

  I saw him the other day. He was walking down the sidewalk. I was riding on the bus. I hadn’t ridden the bus in a while because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run into him. But then I did. I did want to run into him. I wanted to see him. I care for him; even if he doesn’t care for me. I care about him and wanted to see him. But I didn’t signal the driver to stop. I was scared. Then I had a dream.

  I saw you on the sidewalk.

  Why didn’t you stop?

  I was nervous you would disregard me.

  I wouldn’t do that.

  You want to see me again?

  I do.

  That was a week ago Sunday. I’ve ridden the bus every day since and have not seen him. When I do, I will signal the driver to stop. I will get off and run to him. I will walk along side of him, casually, so as not to arouse any suspicions. I will glance at him as if unable to recognize a familiar face. His reaction will be the same. I will grab his hand and stop him. I will tell him I want to listen if he wants to talk.

  ***

  I’m standing in line at the coffee shop. I’m about to order a large regular coffee and a cinnamon stick. Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia crushes me. That smell! That perfume! Where’s it coming from? I close my eyes and breathe deep. She smelled like that; like flowers in a field of flowers after a fragrant rain of spring water. My heart begins to race. I open my eyes, expecting to order my coffee and cinnamon stick. She is there, holding my hand.

  What are you doing here?

  I had to see you.

  I’m glad you did.

  You don’t mind?

  I don’t mind.

  I want to listen.

  We ordered coffee and cinnamon sticks. We sat at a small table near the window. The sun lit the coffee shop with a comforting glow. My face was warm from her presence. People passed by and the shadows grew long. We talked, openly, for the first time. I heard her voice. I shared my story. We drank coffee and talked. The knot in my stomach untied and slackened. I exhaled. Comfortable. Calm. Serene. That was yesterday.

  Before I Go

  The light in the room was low, not dark but shallow and easy on the eyes. A warm glow seemed to hum along the fringe, adding calm and serenity to the sterility of everything else. An intermittent beep resonated like a smoke detector on a low battery.

  The cognizant recognition of the intruding noise waned after a few minutes but could be noticed when attent
ion shifted or eyes reverted to the small monitor.

  A clear cylinder with an accordion type structure within rose and fell at regular intervals; an IV distribution box loomed above all signaling periodically to attend to the empty bags hanging further above.

  Ginger Capshaw stood staring out the window, St. Gregory’s cathedral to the left, whose spire towered higher than anything in the immediate area. As a little girl she had taken her first communion there, dressed in white, her hair in ribbons. Father John who rarely smiled had presented her with her offering and let slip a half grin as the little parishioner accepted the body of Christ.

  Further on down Main Street, past the A&P, the Clothesline Laundromat, and Hendricks Diner, was an empty theater where Harold had taken her on their first date. She couldn’t recall the picture they saw but she did remember how handsome he was and the gentlemanly way he acted that evening.

  She knew before she ever said yes to his first advance that she would someday marry him, but never in her wildest imagination did she think she would still be standing by his side almost 70 years later.

  The sun was beginning to set beyond the foothills, the last rays of light shifting upwards, brushing the sky with hues of red and yellow and orange. The leaves reached full color of autumn earlier in the week and their contrast to the sky was stunning, like a master painter mixing colors to seamlessly blend sky and earth.

  The evening star was just coming up, a brilliant pinprick upon an opal backdrop. The twinkle in the night sky reminded Ginger of just how fleeting these moments are, how precious. How many of us take the time to stop and appreciate the wonders spinning in front of our eyes, free to anyone who cares to stop long enough and glimpse what is out there.

  Harold was fond of saying it’s not the man in the moment it’s the moment in the man. She heard him say it countless times over the years, to their children, to men at church, to anyone who may not have ever heard him say it.

  She heard it so often she forgot what he meant. Not forgot so much as disregarded. Like a comedian who tells the same joke city after city, before long the laughter inside ceases. It isn’t until meaning or context is restored that the original idea takes shape and the joke becomes funny again, even to the teller.