This character has nothing to do with the Isaac in
Midnight Plush
(q.v.). The idea for this story came in a dream, and that was his name in the dream, so I didn't change it. This is the closest thing to a traditional short story I've submitted, and I would really like solid critique on it. Especially, did I do a good job of writing from a man's point of view? Oh, and I guess I should state this explicitly, based on some so-called "feedback" I've gotten on other stories: Everything I write is fiction.
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WHEN I WAS thirty-four years old, I came to the realization that I, Isaac Newton, had done nothing more with my life than bum through it.
It's all my parents' fault. I have to hand it to them for giving me that name. It ensured that, without their ever having to raise an eyebrow or purse a lip, all the high motivations and encouragement to succeed that the world could offer would be focused on their son.
But I fixed them! I majored in philosophy, which prepared me to do with my life exactly what I'd always wanted to--nothing, but with the ability to really ruminate over it if there were no magazines in the bathroom. So, while Mom and Dad were calling NC State to request a refund on my tuition, I was busy perfecting my brickface and stucco skills. I liked the job, liked the guys, liked the paycheck, so I stayed. The cast of characters changed, but there were three of us who lacked the ambition to leave: me, my boss, and the owner.
Then there was Brenda, the receptionist. The first time she saw me flick a butt on the ground, she reacted like I had napalmed a small village and made me skulk over and pick the cigarette up. She was always reprimanding me for my smoking, but she'd looked kind of bummed when I'd asked my boss for two weeks off to go see my family and my best friend Phil. I was ready for a break from the routine, but I had to admit I had started sort of liking it when Brenda nagged me.
Mom and Dad were thrilled that I'd come home, and they were slathering me with parental love in the form of brontosaurus-sized steaks and Mom's Magic Peanut Butter Cup Pudding. Before both my liver and pancreas broke down from exhaustion, I excused myself to go sit out on the stoop and have a smoke.
It was early September, but it still felt like summer. I plopped down onto the concrete, thinking how when I was a kid we'd all be out here playing, watching for the first street light to come on, which meant we had to come home. There were no kids out now; probably they were playing video games or watching softcore porn disguised as network TV.
I'd just lit up when my brother Ernest "Don't Call Me Fig" came out and sat beside me. "When are you gonna quit those things?" he said.
I took a long drag. "I plan to be the last person on the planet still smoking," I said.
"You probably will," he answered, raising his beer at me, "but it's a pretty pathetic vice."
"Yeah, well, crossdressing wasn't working out so well."
He snorted and I kicked off my boots and rested my bare feet on the step. As a kid, it had always been one of my favorite things to sit out on summer evenings when the air was getting cool but the concrete was still warm. It made the right parts of your body just the right temperature to totally enjoy the experience.
"How's work going?" I said.
"Okay." He shrugged. "My boss is an ass." He left unsaid the obvious sequitur:
But whose isn't?
"Well, if you want him bricked into his office, you know who to call."
"How's your job going?"
"Same as always. The only reason my boss and I know what's going on is because we can't have our heads up our asses because the owner's is already in there."
Ernest snorted again, but now I was thinking about Brenda. Fireflies were streaking upward from the grass. Ernest and I had used to catch them and put them in jars, and they would blink by our beds all night long. Brenda was bright and sparkly like that. I let the last smoke of my cigarette slouch out of my mouth, then ground the butt out on the step. I did not flick it into the bushes.
With an extra bowl of pudding in tow, I set out for Phil's. We hadn't seen each other in a year; it was harder now that Phil had three kids. But when I pulled into the driveway, Phil regressed into the Sweetheart of Kappa Delta Rho and gave me the brotherhood yell while I flipped him the finger. A second later he straightened up like a CEO's tie as his daughter Trudy came up from behind me with the mail.
Trudy was taller and thinner now, with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail. "Hi, Trude," I said, reaching out to shake her hand.
"Greetings, Sir Isaac," she giggled, tilting her head winsomely. Great, she'd finally heard about him in school.
"Trudy, that's not funny," Phil said automatically, not even looking up from the mail.
"It's okay. What grade are you in now, Trudy?"
"Fourth." She was smiling cutely. I didn't know what else to say. I'd always been a flop with chicks, even when I was in the fourth grade. Luckily, like most chicks, Trudy liked to talk, and she regaled me while Phil finished checking the mail. Then he looked up and said, "Have you done your homework?"
