Idol Survivor: "Tales From The City"
Mar. 27th, 2021 01:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
halfshellvenusTales From The City
idol survivor | daily-fic challenge, day 8 | 6x100 words
x-x-x-x-x
I.
The delivery truck was late again, as if Sal didn't have a million things to do today. The store opened in an hour—he'd have to rush to get the produce on the shelves, and he was shorthanded already.
His son Joey usually refreshed the produce display, but Joey was late, too. They'd fought at dinner the night before, and Joey had stormed out and gone who knew where? God, Sal's ulcer was pulsating like a disco….
Joey's mother had died eight years ago. Sal knew he said stupid things sometimes, but he loved his son.
Why wasn't Joey back?
II.
Ali was careful through the turns—bicycling in traffic was not for the faint of heart. He'd been car-doored just last week, and lost his cargo to the streets. No broken bones, though, and minor damage to his bike. He'd been lucky.
His current parcel was due by three. He didn't know what was in it. His policy was no drugs, nothing illegal, nothing dangerous. But it was heavy. It made balancing harder on the turns.
Cab ahead, bus behind, keep peddling. His family needed the money back home, whether it was bowling balls or dumbbell weights that fed them.
III.
With a fine, smooth tenor and moves like James Brown, Earl Williams had once hoped to make it big in music.
Driving the Number 47 bus wasn't the same as Motown, but you couldn't feed your children on dreams. He knew he'd made the right choice.
Every week, he sang with a couple of friends who played guitar and drums, and it helped. He didn't know whether Lavelle thought it was foolish, but he loved her enough not to ask. She'd never tell him if she did.
She was one of a kind, the best luck Earl would ever have.
IV.
The daily commute was hell, but it beat driving. Emma stepped into the building and rode the elevator to the fourth floor, where briefs and depositions waited to consume her day.
Mom didn't look good last night. She needs live-in help. But where to find it? Everyone wanted aides who were kind and honest and capable. How many of those could there possibly be?
Emma shuddered to think of the research and interviews ahead, the risk of hiring someone who wasn't what they seemed.
At least it isn't a nursing home. Not yet.
Because that transition would be absolutely brutal.
V.
That T-beam looked crooked, Harry thought. "Fix it!" he yelled, "Inspector's comin' by today!"
Harry glared at his clipboard. Way too much to do, the project was two weeks behind.
Most of the guys were good workers, but you couldn't beat bad luck. Supplier orders the wrong gauge of pipe—Bam! Three days to get the right one delivered. Coupla guys get stomach flu, pass it around—Boom! Two days gone right there.
Today, they were taking out a utility slab, 'sposed to be four feet over.
Christ. Damn jackhammer jolts were reverberatin' right through the arthritis in Harry's spine…
VI.
Enrique hated this job. The tips were good, but the customers... "Where's my risotto?" and "Tell the chef al dente. Do I need to spell it?"
The job was supposed to be temporary, but he and Victor needed the money for a bigger apartment. Something with an actual bedroom and a closet, instead of a studio with a clothes rack and a kitchen smaller than the handicapped stall in the restaurant's bathroom.
He'd met Victor two years ago at a Carnaval de Ponce celebration. Their apartment was trash, but Victor was amazing.
For Victor, even asshole customers were worth it.
--/--
idol survivor | daily-fic challenge, day 8 | 6x100 words
x-x-x-x-x
I.
The delivery truck was late again, as if Sal didn't have a million things to do today. The store opened in an hour—he'd have to rush to get the produce on the shelves, and he was shorthanded already.
His son Joey usually refreshed the produce display, but Joey was late, too. They'd fought at dinner the night before, and Joey had stormed out and gone who knew where? God, Sal's ulcer was pulsating like a disco….
Joey's mother had died eight years ago. Sal knew he said stupid things sometimes, but he loved his son.
Why wasn't Joey back?
II.
Ali was careful through the turns—bicycling in traffic was not for the faint of heart. He'd been car-doored just last week, and lost his cargo to the streets. No broken bones, though, and minor damage to his bike. He'd been lucky.
His current parcel was due by three. He didn't know what was in it. His policy was no drugs, nothing illegal, nothing dangerous. But it was heavy. It made balancing harder on the turns.
Cab ahead, bus behind, keep peddling. His family needed the money back home, whether it was bowling balls or dumbbell weights that fed them.
III.
With a fine, smooth tenor and moves like James Brown, Earl Williams had once hoped to make it big in music.
Driving the Number 47 bus wasn't the same as Motown, but you couldn't feed your children on dreams. He knew he'd made the right choice.
Every week, he sang with a couple of friends who played guitar and drums, and it helped. He didn't know whether Lavelle thought it was foolish, but he loved her enough not to ask. She'd never tell him if she did.
She was one of a kind, the best luck Earl would ever have.
IV.
The daily commute was hell, but it beat driving. Emma stepped into the building and rode the elevator to the fourth floor, where briefs and depositions waited to consume her day.
Mom didn't look good last night. She needs live-in help. But where to find it? Everyone wanted aides who were kind and honest and capable. How many of those could there possibly be?
Emma shuddered to think of the research and interviews ahead, the risk of hiring someone who wasn't what they seemed.
At least it isn't a nursing home. Not yet.
Because that transition would be absolutely brutal.
V.
That T-beam looked crooked, Harry thought. "Fix it!" he yelled, "Inspector's comin' by today!"
Harry glared at his clipboard. Way too much to do, the project was two weeks behind.
Most of the guys were good workers, but you couldn't beat bad luck. Supplier orders the wrong gauge of pipe—Bam! Three days to get the right one delivered. Coupla guys get stomach flu, pass it around—Boom! Two days gone right there.
Today, they were taking out a utility slab, 'sposed to be four feet over.
Christ. Damn jackhammer jolts were reverberatin' right through the arthritis in Harry's spine…
VI.
Enrique hated this job. The tips were good, but the customers... "Where's my risotto?" and "Tell the chef al dente. Do I need to spell it?"
The job was supposed to be temporary, but he and Victor needed the money for a bigger apartment. Something with an actual bedroom and a closet, instead of a studio with a clothes rack and a kitchen smaller than the handicapped stall in the restaurant's bathroom.
He'd met Victor two years ago at a Carnaval de Ponce celebration. Their apartment was trash, but Victor was amazing.
For Victor, even asshole customers were worth it.
--/--
no subject
Date: 2021-03-27 11:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-03-28 09:48 pm (UTC)I love 100-word drabbles-- they force you to be very concise while still setting a mood and telling a story. They're like little puzzles. :D
no subject
Date: 2021-03-28 11:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-03-29 05:26 am (UTC)I think people's lives are often more complicated than what we see from the outside, and more interesting than we might suspect!
no subject
Date: 2021-03-28 12:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-03-29 05:29 am (UTC)And yes! with all of our struggles, no matter how similar they may or may not be, we each have to try to make it through to the other side.
no subject
Date: 2021-03-28 11:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-03-29 08:18 pm (UTC)I do sometimes tie them together (like the one for The Lamp), but often they're just different variations on a larger theme. :)
no subject
Date: 2021-03-29 02:31 pm (UTC)But I also used to think that I hated vignettes, after being forced to read The House on Mango Street in high school and just not getting it, and now I have a greater appreciation for little slices of life like this. I love the heart that you're able to put into 100 words!
no subject
Date: 2021-03-29 08:30 pm (UTC)I adore it, but then, I'm kind of a micro-ficcer at heart. The challenge of the word count and the tiny size is just fun for me, and you might enjoy it too!
I've never read that book, but I do remember the issue of being forced to read things for English class that I did not want to read. And interestingly enough, talking to other people in my profession (computer science/electrical engineering), I've found a lot of people who love to read (like me), but only what they want to read. It seems to be one of the key things that drove them away from being English majors (as it did me), because they're all articular and write well, but they have that same aversion to reading things they hate. Whereas HalfshellHusband's reaction is kind of, "Huh?" And he WAS an English major!
no subject
Date: 2021-03-29 08:43 pm (UTC)The House on Mango Street is a good one, but it was very weird at the time that I read it; I'd never seen anything like it before. It's basically a fictional memoir told in vignettes, some several pages long and some just a few paragraphs long. There's no real plot or anything, just a series of memories. And I just hated it, because I didn't really get the point. But now, I feel like if I was to put out a novel, that would basically be the format I would use, and I love the format now!
It's just interesting seeing how tastes can change over time.
no subject
Date: 2021-03-29 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-03-29 08:31 pm (UTC)