Whenever people read these stories I face questions about whether or not I experienced the events myself. For me I observe people so closely and have for so long that I often see the things other people might miss. I personally don't know how I would react. If you read this story drop a comment below. How would you react?
Quentin was a stand up guy. That was his reputation.
He was the kind of person who you knew you could extend credit to. Not that he would accept it mind you. He had standards that he adhered to.
He was a union man and counted himself lucky to be. He lived in the Bronx. His house was nice, not ostentatious but a nice solid house for a nice solid guy.
His wife had been his girlfriend since high school. He still drew pictures for her everyday. She hadn't mentioned it in years but he knew she noticed.
Quentin, wasn't an attractive man. He wasn't ugly, he just was bland. He fit in like a regular glazed in a dozen regular glazed. He was a hair over 6ft, maybe 6ft and a quarter.
The heavy lifting he did at the docks 8 to 12 hours a day were far better than any gym membership. He was in great shape, but not the extreme body builders physique. He looked like what he was a hard working dock hand.
He had been on the job 11 years. His wife’s Father had gotten him on.
Life was good, and despite the many distractions he had never strayed.
He walked the same streets every day. He got off the train at 161 and Yankee stadium. He passed the McDonald's. Lot's of his fellow commuters would get coffee at McDonald's.
Not Quentin give him Café Bustelo, from the Bodega still just 50 cents.
He liked his routine. Liked the fact that he could buy his coffee at the Bodega on the corner and by the time he reached the train he was finishing his sole cup of the day.
He got off the train at his job at 5:45 every day. He went to the same diner ordered a buttered roll, one egg on the side, and two pieces of bacon. Every morning he stared at the menu on both sides as if he might change his mind, and then order his same meal.
Nothing altered his schedule.
Until today. As he passed by a tall muscular bald man selling a laptop to a short Puerto Rican kid. He noticed how different this route looked at this time of day.
It took exactly 11 minutes 32 seconds to get from the Yankees Stadium to Quentin’s house on Melrose and 156th.
He was early. A container of illegal immigrants had been discovered on the docks, the dead and dying people had caused a huge cluster fuck that sent Quentin home.
He noticed the lady selling flowers on the corner and stopped to get some for Lucy. His wife’s name was Luciana, she was the first girl he had ever kissed and he planned for her to be the last.
He was not the sappy romantic type who sent text messages or surprise flowers. His idea of showing his love was making sure that there was enough money to take care of all of the bills. He bought her nice things but it was always as a result of her wanting it.
The flowers had just called out to him. He decided to do something different. The deli on the Grand concourse had complete meals and he picked up something to heat up once his wife got off work that evening.
He got excited about the idea. And by the time he reached his front door he was humming his favorite “baby making” song. Avant’s "Read your Mind."
Before he could unlock the door, Quenton remembered that he had candles in the basement, and decided to get them.
He entered their house from the back alleyway.
He suspected that he had a couple hours before Lucy got home. So he was totally unprepared for the nude man standing at his refrigerator drinking orange juice directly from the bottle.
The man obviously had no idea that Quentin was there. He drained the bottle, with his head tilted back. He absently scratched his butt and his genitals swayed perilously close to the food.
“Excuse me bro, err brother.” The naked man began choking and the last remains of the juice came out his nostrils.
Quenton could hear his wife's hurried steps coming down the steps.
He was still holding the delicatessen bag, candles and the “Crazy Daisy’s” bouquet.
Her face said it all.
He had yet to find his tongue.
Hi Michael. I came here from Twitter, not your follower yet.
ReplyDeleteNot sure what kind of comment you're looking for. The story strikes me as rather slight; it's hard to make much of an impact in few words, and most of these words aren't that interesting. This is more of an incident than a story, and not much of a surprise situation.
As for what I would do in such a situation, I'm 71 years old and can hardly put myself in Quentin's position. It's also very difficult to realistically predict one's reactions. For me, rage would be unlikely; I cannot predict Quentin's reaction. Any number of things would be reasonable.
You have some competence as a writer, that's very clear. I'd be happy to answer any questions you may have about your story or this rather unsatisfactory comment. I have extensive experience as a writer (45 yrs), but have never submitted for publication.
Hope this helps, sorry it's pretty negative.
Alan Carl Nicoll
alan2653589@gmail.com
First let me say that I am honored that you visited, I don't view this as negative. I am attempting to hone my craft. Any and all comments are appreciated. I hope that you will follow my journey to becoming a great writer.
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