WRiTE CLUB 2013 Play-offs Round Two - Bout 1

Here we go with the second round of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs.  In this round our ten contestants will be battling it out with a brand new writing sample, which could very easily turn the tide.  The bouts will be posted on Mon - Tue - Wed - Thur - Sat, but the voting will remain open for all bouts until Sunday at noon.

Once again...every vote counts. The contestant who doesn't win their bout...but garners the most votes amongst all of the other losers...will become a wildcard winner and advance to round 3.  

Whether you've been following along from the beginning or this is your first time here...no matter...it's just a matter of choosing the one you feel deserves to move forward. Please offer some critique if you have time.  Anyone reading this can vote (after signing up on this LinkyList) so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun.  

And now...stepping into the ring with a brand new story to tell...here is Philangelus.

If the customer was any more in my face, I'd be tasting her mouthwash. "You were supposed to give me an estimate!"

We don't have bullet-proof glass at the garage, so I raise both hands. "But we didn't--"

"I was waiting right here." The woman's angular cheeks go purple, and she's got a white-knuckled grip on her purse. "If you think I'm paying for that, you can forget it."

I thrust her the keys and the paperwork. "You don't have to. You're free to go."

For a moment she huffs in the otherwise-still waiting room. A whiff of exhaust ghosts the air while passing cars hum outside the windows, which are dusted outside with snow and inside with peeled paint. Finally she says, "What?"

Poised to dart back from the counter, I circle the total at the bottom of the invoice. $0.00.  "The car is fixed. You're all set. Have a nice day."

Two regular customers watch from the corners of their eyes. I'd like to think both men would have saved a damsel in distress, but this is Brooklyn--they'd have bolted outside before their abandoned Daily News pages finished fluttering to the floor.

The keys crunch together as the woman slips them into her coat pocket. "It's fixed?"

Okay, crisis averted. Breathe, Lee. Breathe.

This late in the day, the vinyl floor bears a salt and dirty-snow grime, and I'm as tired as last month's Christmas decorations. The sun already sits below the rooftops, and my last cup of coffee happened four hours ago. At least, I assume that was coffee. I found it in the coffee pot, so that should count for something.

Back to the customer. "Our test drive confirmed the gasoline odor in the car, but that wasn't the smell of a bad fuel pump. Your gas cap had a cracked gasket which allowed fumes to get sucked in through the trunk whenever you accelerated." I slip onto the stool beside the computer, bringing myself up to eye-level with the woman. "Knowing a locking gas cap isn't standard on the Taurus, we popped the trunk and found the original cap rolling around the spare tire bed. New test drive, no odor, no charge." Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on the counter. "If you aren't satisfied, we'll provide a full refund."

Silence for five seconds.

She bites her lip. "The first mechanic swore it was the fuel pump."

"And agreed to change it for $300," I venture, "while throwing in a new gas cap for free?"

She bursts out laughing. That's less than a week's rent, but hey, money's money. "Tell the mechanic I want to marry him."

I make my eyes big. "That would be me." When she steps backward, I add, "But I'm happily single, so I'll decline your proposal."

Now I've shocked her twice. "But you're a girl."

Staring down at myself, I gasp. Yep, still the same me: grease-stained pants, denim shirt with our logo, and work boots.
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And with their own brand new piece of writing, welcome back to the ring....Dinah Annella.





I only went out with him in public once, to a grocery store. He’d promised his wife he would bring home a few things after working late. We had spent the time before in his office, as always, on the couch behind his desk, on the gray blanket.

“I don’t want to say goodbye yet. Come with me to the store.”

“You’re crazy.”

“We’ll pretend we don’t know each other.”

I followed him in my boyfriend’s car and parked two aisles over. I watched him walk into the store, then sat in the silent darkness for a half a minute before getting out.

I always felt a little drugged after we were together. That night in the store, I felt hypnotized. I glided through the aisles, blinking a little at first from the white light. I couldn’t see him. There was only the sound of my shoes on the tile, the hum of the coolers, a faint jingle from the cashier.

I picked up milk and cereal, a loaf of bread, some bananas. He stood at the only open register. I walked up behind him with my basket, closed my eyes and breathed in. I could smell him, just a little.

“Hey, I know you.” His voice shocked me. “You’re in one of my classes, right?” He turned to face me as he waited for his change.

“No, I don’t think so.” I didn’t know what to say. We weren’t supposed to speak.

“Sure? Okay, I guess not. You look like somebody.” He picked up his bag and touched my arm. “Well, have a good night, whoever you are.”

When I went out to the parking lot, his car was already gone.

———

Older men are so grateful. That’s what I had told the one friend I confided in about the professor. After the first time, he buried his head into my shoulder, stroked my hair, my breasts, my hips. “You’re amazing ... you’re so beautiful,” he murmured. Then, in just a whispery breath, “Thank you.”

Here’s one truth: I believed I was doing him a favor. I was enhancing his life, letting him escape from being 44, from the job, the house, the wife and kids. In our affair, there was only amazement, only gratitude.

“You have ensorcelled me,” he told me once, a couple of weeks into it, as he knelt on the floor, looking up at me on his couch. The previous week, he had lectured on ensorcellment in Macbeth, The Tempest and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He reached up to hold my breasts. His eyes glistened in the light from the parking lot below. Maybe he was the hero and I was a plot device; all I knew then was that no one had ever worshiped me like that.

The fear and worry, the guilt and the tears eventually came: our denouement, our own Act V. No one ever found out.

He gave me a B+, the grade I deserved.
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Leave your vote and we'll see you back here tomorrow for the next match-up!

Remember the WRiTE CLUB motto, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!