The Lucky Quarter Chapter 1

As much as I hate to say it, it was a dark and stormy night.  I've always hated that opening to a story; it's so overused it's now cliché.  What's worse, it's redundant.  Unless you live in the part of Norway or Alaska where 'day' can last for six months, dark at night is pretty much a given.  If you happen upon a 'bright and sunny night' in say, downtown Seattle, chances are you are heading for your local place of worship to prepare for the impending Apocalypse.  But I digress... let's just say the time was late evening, the weather was crappy, and I was very, very late.

 

Late is a relative term.  For some people being late means one second after the time they had promised to arrive.  I don't understand those people. To me late has always been a more dynamic concept, depending heavily on what you are suppose to be there for, how many minutes have passed since you were supposed to be there, who will notice your arrival, and how many of your stock excuses for being late said individuals have already heard.

 

In this particular case, I was supposed to be at my girlfriend's apartment for her birthday.  I was supposed to be there when she got off work at 8 p.m.; the time was 10:30.  At this point in our relationship, Sharon had heard every conceivable (and some inconceivable) excuse for my habitual tardiness.  I think by any definition, I had kissed ordinary run-of-the-mill late bye-bye about an hour ago.

 

The other thing I had kissed bye-bye an hour ago was my patience.  I definitely was not in the mood to get caught behind Mrs. Hershfelder at the entrance to my girlfriend's apartment complex.  Mrs. Hershfelder was a five-foot, eighty-pound lady who was somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred years old.  Her floral print dresses hung very loosely off her bony frame, and she made the Walter Matthau character from 'Grumpy Old Men' seem like Mary Poppins by comparison.  The rain had made her current dress, a particularly gaudy pitch-black number with bright yellow flowers, stick awkwardly in places.  Coupled with the black plastic garbage bag she had draped over her head to protect her precious auburn-dyed hair from the rain, I got the vague impression of a flamboyantly-gay, midget Grim Reaper.  At that moment, she was carrying two separate oversized bags of groceries, one in each arm, while awkwardly trying to place her key in the lock to the door at the front of the apartment complex.

 

"Let me help you with your bags, Mrs. Hershfelder."  I offered as politely as I could manage, trying to take one bag from her arm.

 

"Keep your damn hands to yourself!"  Mrs. Hershfelder responded defiantly, shaking off my helping hand.  "I didn't need your help to raise 3 kids, and I certainly don't need your help to get in my own building."

 

As fate would have it, she next proceeded to drop her keys, now slippery from the rain, onto the ground in front of the door.  When she bent over to grab the keys, a gust of wind took hold of the garbage bag on her head and blew it directly into my face.  She made a few vain attempts at picking up the keys, still holding her groceries as if to prove a point. 

 

"For the love of God!" I muttered to myself, throwing off the plastic bag in disgust.  My small modicum of patience now exhausted, I unceremoniously grabbed her keys from the ground as she continued to fumble about.  In one deft motion I stepped in front of her, unlocked the door, and flippantly tossed her keys over my shoulder without looking.  I quickly opened the door partway, slid through the opening, and allowed the door to slam shut behind me, leaving Mrs. Hershfelder outside the building.  She didn't want any help...

 

As I bounded up the staircase to Sharon's apartment two steps at a time, I wracked my brain for a new excuse for being late.  I was pretty sure that beating my roommate Tommy in NHL 93 on Sega for the 15^th straight game (my personal record) wouldn't fly very well.  Realistically, I had only one shot:  She was a nurse, and she was always getting stuck at work four or five hours past her scheduled shift.  With a little luck, she was caught up in the emergency room, and would never know how badly I had screwed up.

 

Reaching the top of the stairs, I pulled out my lucky quarter out of my jean pocket, gave it a kiss for luck, and screwed up my courage to knock on the door.  Good old lucky quarter - you've never failed me.

 

Midway between my first and second knock, the door briefly opened three inches.  I caught a quick glimpse of my very angry girlfriend, and then the door was vehemently slammed shut in my face.

 

"Wonderful…" I muttered ironically to myself, quickly turning around to whip my lucky quarter down the stairwell as hard as I could.

 

I believe I caught the first glimpse of what would soon change my life in the middle of my throwing motion, soon enough to realize what I was about to accidentally do, but too late to stop it…

 

 

Reviews

[Yvonne Heidt]

original review:

I have no need to hack it. You are going to be one of the writers that I read that I must not - I repeat NOT - have anything in mouth - be it a drink or food. This was hilarious. I laughed out loud (Quite a few times, actually) and scared the dogs - I can't find anything to edit. I just enjoyed this story immensely.


EXCELLENT - 100%

what about the potty thing? Enquiring minds want to know!

2/08 - Yep - its still hilarious and still enjoying it!