Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  TRUTH HURTS

  TRUTH HURTS

  A Collection of Short Stories by

  DAVID BOYLE

  Adelaide Books

  New York / Lisbon

  2018

  TRUTH HURTS

  a collection of short stories

  by David Boyle

  Copyright © 2018 By David Boyle

  Cover design © 2018 By Adelaide Books

  Published by Adelaide Books, New York / Lisbon

  adelaidebooks.org

  Editor-in-Chief

  Stevan V. Nikolic

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

  manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except

  in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For any information, please address Adelaide Books

  at info@adelaidebooks.org

  ISBN13: 978-1-953510-14-3

  To those treasured readers whose curiosity has compelled

  them to pick up this book and explore the possibilities.

  May you find pleasure, entertainment, and substance

  in the pages that follow.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  An Honest Day’s Work

  Key

  Last Chance

  Men At Work

  Roll Camera

  Sellout

  The Embezzler

  The Shadows Know

  The Taste Of Licorice

  The Turn Around

  Truth Hurts

  Under Lights

  Undeserving

  Unforeseen

  Vapor

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to extend profoundest thanks to Stevan V. Nikolic and the staff of Adelaide Books, for not only believing in my craft but for having brought to readers, whom I treasure and adore, this collection of stories. Heartfelt thanks and warmest regards go to everyone who during this adventure has offered me helpful critique, advice, and guidance, as well as those who have heaped on me a generous and never-ending stream of kind words, encouragement, support, and good cheer. I share this book—this little triumph—with all of you. All my love to Beth, Murphy, and Madison.

  AN HONEST DAY’S WORK

  Dearest Ellen,

  It’s me, Freddie. I’ve got so much to let out. We’ve been married almost thirty-five years but I’ve never felt so lost, so hollow. Here I am, a fifty-five-year-old man blubbering like an immature kid. You know, our whole marriage has passed without my writing a single letter, but hey, I kind of like expressing myself this way. It feels good to put thoughts on paper because I sometimes have difficulty articulating myself when we’re together. How strange, especially being a salesman and all. I guess I’m only a smooth talker when a customer is in front of me. That shouldn’t be the case. Anyway, I can’t help myself, Ellen. Even though I don’t always say the right things at the right time, that doesn’t mean I don’t care. After all these years of marriage I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you. You’ve become a replica of my wildest dreams... and more. I, on the other hand, feel like a failure, an utter waste. There’s no other way to put it. Everyone in the park is staring at me while I’m writing this and crying. Yes, that’s right...crying, my tears staining the paper. I’m not embarrassed to admit it either. I’ve been acting this way on and off for hours. Ever since I lost my job last year I’ve felt so useless and lost. I put my time in and worked hard. Right? I don’t deserve this dull ache all over my body. I sold furniture my whole life and made people’s lives better. At least that’s what I like to believe, even if it’s false. I was no doctor but I had pride in my work, as much as they do. When the company cut me loose I thought I’d recover quickly, bounce back like I always did when I was young. But I’m not young anymore, Ellen. The years have taken their toll. I’ve applied for thirty-two jobs as a store manager—the thirty-second application was put through this morning. You wouldn’t believe it but even with all my experience the owner of the store (a real bastard) laughed me out of the place. The other applicant was a really athletic-looking college grad. They were impressed the minute they saw him. What little chance I had dissolved once they saw my thinning gray hair and flabbiness. The owner was bigger than I was but didn’t help me none. I knew right then and there...it wasn’t meant to be. Frustrating! So I walked out and came here to the park. The hot dog I ate was good. I shared my bun with the birds. They were appreciative beyond words. One of them circled me and landed for a fleeting moment on my shoulder. I almost burst into tears; for that fraction of a second I felt important to somebody, to something—appreciated and cherished. That’s all anybody wants in this world, I think. You know, there’s something sort of secretive about writing this letter yet I feel closer to you than I ever have before and you’re forty miles away at work. Maybe you’re thinking of me. Maybe you’re not. But if I know you I’d say I’m on your mind at least a little. We have to come here one day and just sit around, perhaps on top of a big rock. Lots of them here. Some with flowers around them. We can stare at the lake and share a big hot dog, dunk our feet in the water and then walk around this scenic place.

  Damn this second hot dog seems bigger than the first, too big for the bun. Doesn’t matter. I’m feeding most of it to my new winged friends. This day has shown me that friends come in all shapes and sizes, and mine can fly, and look down on this insane, corrupt world, and avoid it whenever they want. I wish I could do that. Though I would only come down to be with you, my wife. And to eat a hot dog here in this nice park. Anyway, I have so much to tell you, Ellen, but I don’t want to bore you either. I’ve just been feeling so worthless these days. I remember hearing somebody talk about fifty-something-year-old burnouts when I was a kid. I figured they were just talking, you know. Now I’m one of them and I thought I could avoid it. I guess what they all say is true. You live, you work, you get old, and you die, and leave nothing behind. I want to matter again, Ellen. I want to sell furniture to people and bring home money and be with you every day and go through good times and bad times with you and get in shape and live a long life. I don’t know if all that’s going to happen, Ellen. Not at this rate. I go to the store to buy groceries and I feel eyes looking down on me. I feel like a waste of life only having twenty dollars in my pocket. I feel useless watching everybody my age going to work with a suit and tie wrapped neatly and securely over a pressed shirt. I’ll never earn the same money I did before. But I don’t care. I want our life back. Will it ever be back to normal again? It’s been a whole year and nothing has changed except for the struggle to pay bills and stay afloat. Our savings account is really drained. I went to the bank today to withdraw money for essentials. The amount left in the account terrified me. Where did it all go, Ellen? What have I done to us? I’m losing my self-respect a little at a time. By the way, I snapped at the cheerleaders at the supermarket today. They were outside like always, begging for money for stupid uniforms and I told them to get a job and pay for it themselves. The way it ought to be. Everybody paying their own way. Their mothers told the manager but he didn’t say anything to me. I’m a longtime customer so the big boss looked the other way. I should be the one asking them for money, don’t you think? These kids are so damn greedy and spoiled and the parents do nothing to stop it. Our Dana never pulled that crap. We did a fine job raising her. She has been working since she was fifteen and doing well for herself. Now that I think about it: Does anybody work for things anymore? That’s all I want, Ellen. To work for things. To help give us a better life. To participate. It’s amazing how a willing participant can struggle to find work. It doesn’t seem fair. Only cruel and unjust. I just want to earn my keep and live an honest life. I hope you a
lways know that. The one thing that keeps me going is you, Ellen. You never make me feel like less of a man. Companies may not see my greatness as a salesman and manager but you always see my greatness as your husband...as a person. That’s all I really need, Ellen. I wish I had said that more often, not only now that I’m in the dumps. I’m not going to hold back anymore. I’m going to be more outgoing and happy and expressive and upfront with you. Losing my job at Bentley’s might be just what I needed to come to terms with who—and what—I am. I tend to feel streaks of extreme vulnerability and fail to rectify them. I often feel so unsure of myself, as though if you could see me now you’d laugh at me, just like that condescending manager whose company I applied to. People here have seen me wipe my face with a handkerchief countless times but they say nothing. They probably feel sorry for me or don’t care. I can’t blame them. Maybe they think I’m a drunk or a drug addict or a lowlife of some kind. I feel most like the latter—although feeling like the other two is not entirely out of the question. As you can see the pen you bought for my birthday years ago still works. That’s what I’m writing this letter with. I still love the engraving you had put on it: Fred Sinclair: Master Husband, Master Salesman. Back then all the guys at the store loved talking about it. They really liked you, Ellen. Who doesn’t for that matter? I do most of all. Always have and always will. I’m going to stand up soon and walk off my grief. It’s so hard sometimes. How is it possible that something so ordinary (losing a job) can make a grown virile man feel like a loser to all who know him? By the way, I hope you aren’t mad at me later. I know you always like me to buy lottery tickets when I go to the grocery store. I didn’t feel like it today. I’m sick of giving my money away and getting nothing in return. We haven’t won a damn thing since I had a full head of hair and a slim waistline. I don’t care that it’s only a dollar or two. Let’s save that money. We’ll use it next time we’re here and pay for that delicious hot dog I keep talking about. Believe me it’s worth it. Wow! A pretty bird just flew past me and landed on an overgrown purple rhododendron. What it does is chirp in a special harmony only the other birds understand and then they all gather around it. It’s so heartwarming to watch. I wonder if all the birds are his family or friends or what? I see many families in the park today. Some are walking together. Across from me a young couple is eating fruit on a blanket. On the other end of the park an ice-cream vendor is pushing his cart toward the center. The idea of an ice cream sounds good now. This day is really shaping up better than I thought. You and I love to eat, don’t we? I can’t wait to bring you here. We must come this weekend. We’ll bring bread and feed the birds and ducks and squirrels and watch them all play and we can laugh real hard at their silly games. I bet you this is all I need, to get away from life for a while and breathe some clean air and soak up a change of scenery. To be alone with myself and get reacquainted with my feelings. You know what, Ellen? I am somebody after all. Damn right. And I’m going to turn my life around and prove to you that we were destined for better, even in the face of crippling adversity. If you believe in me that’s all I need, really. Screw the rest of them. When I finish this letter I’m going to visit that huge store downtown and see if they are looking for help. This world hasn’t seen the last of Frederick T. Sinclair. Thank you for listening, my love, my wife, my biggest fan, my number one customer. That’s right, Ellen, I remember. When we met I was selling furniture and when I die I’ll be doing the same thing. With a smile! I remember like yesterday when you first came into the store and laid eyes on me. You made my worst day of sales seem like a day at the park. I sold nothing that day. Zilch. But you, Mrs. Ellen Sinclair, bought into my charms. Do me a big favor. If you can hear me... go to your window and stick your head outside. Take in the mysterious scent. Take at least three deep breaths, then close your eyes and extend your hand. You’ll find me.

  KEY

  After three attempts, Luke Barnum’s old pickup truck finally started. Natalie, his wife of ten years, watched him from the kitchen window as he struck the dashboard with his fist. Loading into his truck a toolbox along with various supplies, he turned and made eye contact with Natalie, who, sensing his despondency, put a smile on her face for him. Luke leaned against his truck and braced himself on the bed rail, wondering when, if ever, he could put enough money aside to repair his aging truck, or, even less likely, purchase a new one. Gazing off into the distance, the cold wind ruffling his dark, uncombed hair, he appraised his achy hands—workman’s hands, which, in Luke’s mind, had so little strength left in them.

  As Luke finished securing his ladder in place, strapping it down with bungee cords of varying lengths and condition, he heard Natalie pounding on the window. When he turned to see what she wanted, he saw his wife waving at him excitedly. Luke couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a look on her face. He made his way up the driveway.

  Inside, Natalie came up to him and embraced him, holding a piece of paper in hand. “You found a job?” Luke asked, sounding hopeful.

  “No,” she said, “but I think your ship—our ship—has come in.”

  She showed Luke the paper: A name, Broderick Foster, and a phone number were written in a looping cursive. Natalie kissed the paper. “This Broderick guy lives in Wood-haven—that gated community across town. He heard about your work through his garbage man. Anyway, Woodhaven people are loaded—big time. He wants you to call him at his office, in five minutes.”

  “Sounds promising,” Luke said, reserving his enthusiasm for the only thing that mattered: a signed contract. “We’ll see what happens. I’ve been through this before. Things sometimes don’t work out. I’m tired of getting worked up for nothing. Being decent and getting taken for it.”

  “Don’t spoil the moment,” Natalie said. “You’ve hustled day and night to keep your business profitable, working with clients who are just getting by, who can’t afford to pay a premium wage. There’s nothing wrong with feeling good about this prospect, possibly earning what your worth. You’re nobody’s flunky.”

  “Understood. I’d prefer to stay low key, at least for now. Healthier for my state of mind, you know. I’m sure you can appreciate where I’m coming from.”

  Natalie placed her hand on Luke’s cheek and rubbed it. “Don’t know what goes on in that mind of yours, but hey, have it your way. I just want my old Luke back, the one who has seemed so downtrodden lately.”

  10:00am. Pulling into the driveway, Luke noticed Broderick Foster looking at him through the plush, velvety curtains. Snow flurries stippled the cold earth, remnants of a passing storm. He went up the walkway and came to a brick staircase. Climbing it, he held onto the snow-slickened handrail, which was a bit loose, an easy fix. He rang the bell, waited a few short moments. An attractive woman answered. “Why, hello, you must be Luke.”

  Luke handed her a business card. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Luke Barnum, as in the circus. I spoke with your husband this morning.”

  “Come in, Luke, I’m Marcy. Broderick and I have been looking forward to meeting you. Please have a seat.”

  Of the three immense couches, Luke sat on the one closest to him. “Please thank your garbage man for the reference.”

  “I sure will. His parents live in the low-class section of town, in those rent-controlled apartments.”

  “The ‘poor section’, you mean?”

  “Excuse me?” Marcy said, her voice low, barely audible.

  Embarrassed by what he’d said and the way he’d said it: “So sorry, Mrs. Foster. Don’t know what I was thinking. I didn’t mean to come across as—”

  “No worries, Luke. Relax. We’re just talking here. It’s just that I’ve never heard it put that way before, at least not in my circles. Carry on.”

  Luke was about to speak. But Marcy got up from her chair as Broderick came into the room. “Luke, I’d like you to meet my husband, Broderick.”

  The men shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Luke said. “I really appreciate the phone call this morning. Some
house you have.”

  “Why, thank you, Luke. We like it.”

  “I bet.”

  “So,” Broderick continued, “my wife would like her closets done this month. She’s waited long enough, and I’m at fault for putting it off. I’ve been lost in a couple of big cases. The days have been a blur.”

  “Totally understand, sir. Sometimes I find myself closing up shop around eight p.m.—I’m a one-man crew, can’t find anyone reliable these days. Anyway, your family can count on me. I’m pretty much taking on all jobs—big or small. This economy doesn’t allow for selectivity.”

  “Terrific,” Broderick said. Marcy was smiling. Broderick motioned toward his office. “C’mon, Luke, let’s get the paperwork squared away and then Marcy will show you what needs to be done.”

  Luke followed.

  Next day. Another passing snowstorm had dropped only an inch or so. Just enough for the Public Works Department to have to sand the roads, making the afternoon commute safer. Broderick pulled onto Melody Lane, taking in the panorama, absorbing what he’d been brought up to believe in unequivocally—suburban bliss, security, opulence, neighbors he enjoyed fraternizing with, having the respect and admiration of almost everyone in the community, with the exception of the ostensible few who mistakenly thought him arrogant. But a man living at his level never became unduly concerned about such silliness. No reason to be. He couldn’t please them all. Not everyone was going to ingratiate themselves with him. Certainly not people who worked equally hard and were of modest means.