IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES
A Short Short Story
Obviously, Reggie was upset, and as he paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, it almost seemed as if he moved under a spotlight. Well, actually, he did pace beneath a light of sorts, and if the scenario were taken even slightly out of context, he could have been mistaken for a thespian: a wiry, tattooed Brando in a ratty wife-beater, pouring his soul out in some grand soliloquy on a Broadway stage.
“Oh, so you think you have it bad, do you?” he asked. “Well, what about me?
He stopped, thumped his chest with a clenched fist on ‘me’ then, bingo, his hands were behind his back again and on he strode – all very theatrical. But a moment of this magnitude called for it, as did his need to continue without waiting for a response, so he drew a deep breath and rushed on.
“I thought so. Women like you never have an answer to that one. But you wanna know the truth? I’ve had it right up to here with your type.” Once more he unclasped his hands, now pressing the back of his left one snuggly under his chin on ‘here,’ wiggling his fingers just a bit for emphasis. Truly, he hadn’t felt this emotional in some time, but in a way maybe the situation was good, cathartic even, and he focused on the jumble of words fighting to come out.
“You walk around in your fancy fuckin’ shoes with no holes in ‘em and your . . .” He paused now, looking for the perfect way to describe fancy fuckin’ blouse with no stains on it; but, perhaps because of the stress of the moment, the word blouse eluded him and the best he could come up with was:
“Clean fuckin’ shirt.”
“Yeah, that’s right Miss La De Da, your fancy fuckin’ shoes and clean fuckin’ shirt. You walk right around in ‘em thinkin’ you’re better than the rest of us while we gotta make do with our rags and such.”
Because she was dressed so fancy, Reggie guessed she’d been to a party – the kind of party he’d never be invited to; maybe one of those frat things or whatever. Plus, it was late, almost morning, actually, and he could smell booze on her, lots of it, which meant she must have been whooping it up big-time. So this whole situation was her fault; no doubt about it. And this thought – that she could be insensitive enough to do this to him – got him going all over again.
“But ain’t that the way with you and your sort? You step into a guy’s life – right where you shouldn’t be steppin’ without no personal fuckin’ regard – and Bam, just like that, you go and make everythin’ all fuckin’ messy for him.”
Still no response; just that passive stare. But, given her position, what could she say?
Then, possibly because he’d finally felt he’d vented enough to achieve some kind of closure, or more likely because a pre-dawn glow was starting to seep into the horizon, he stopped pacing and looked directly into her eyes.
“Oh, and by the way. What I meant to say was clean fuckin’ blouse . . . although it’s not quite so clean now, is it? And with those puffs and shiny buttons on it and the way your glasses are sittin’ all crooked up on your forehead like that, you look like a total ass-clown.”
Satisfied with his last words, he turned away and marched back to the late-model Mercedes. As he sidled in past the open driver’s-side door, a loose jangle of wires drooping beneath the steering-column casing brushed against his right knee.
He slammed the door shut now, putting an exclamation mark on the whole sad affair. It was time to move on, or it would be in a moment, but first he had to rifle through the cheeseburger and candy bar wrappers, the loose Zig-Zags, the empty beer cans, and the scattering of tinfoil balls littering the passenger’s seat beside him until he found it: the half-smoked cigarette he’d been rooting for when he was so rudely interrupted.
There it was, hiding underneath the duct-taped Advil-bottle-and-Bic-pen crack pipe. He lit the butt, drew deeply, and slipped the still-idling vehicle into drive.
* * *
Reggie didn’t look back – not for a full block, anyway, and when he finally did check the rear-view mirror, the crumpled mass lying under the blinking yellow glow of the crosswalk sign didn’t look much bigger than a racoon carcass.
Not really.
I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE STORY. ANOTHER WILL BE PUBLISHED EACH TUESDAY. PLEASE COME BACK SOON!