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Cheryl Snell's avatar

Memory Made of Half-Truths and Blind Spots

You were talking about missed connections the other day and the subject reminded me of Dad—how, when he was dying he got that creepy call threatening to blow him up with a car bomb. Remember, he told the guy he’d better step on it because he expected to be dead in about a week anyway. Still, every morning for the few days he had left, he would check the car for a bomb. Even though his time was medically up, he wanted to live. I wish I loved life that much, to want to hang on despite so much pain. Then I got to thinking about how memory lingers in snapshots; you never get the whole picture. And I started to wonder about the would-be bomber, of course hoping he’d had plenty of pain in his miserable life. Do you ever wonder what happened to him? What kind of life he had after he threatened Dad’s? Everyone loved Dad─ the whole town showed up at his funeral it seemed. Was the phone punk a disgruntled employee or something? Or was he just a loser calling from his mom’s basement, between tokes and action-figure fantasies? Maybe he developed one of those magical thinking disorders when he read the death notice in the paper, deciding it was his threat alone that killed Dad. Maybe he got religion, like Nana did when she wanted forgiveness for wishing Gramps dead. Maybe the bomber is stalking a street corner right now with a sign promising the end is near, his mind on fire, waiting for the relief of death if there is any.

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Guy Cramer's avatar

That piece is incredible. So funny too, I love the part “you’re a little pretty and nice” 🤣

I love “California Fruit” Meg! I think I have that one in one of your collections.

Here’s my version of “Why This Isn’t A Good Story”

No Good Deed

The past two months, since you were curious, haven’t been that productive. Still job hunting. But there’s this house at the end of the street, the one you said was a hazard because there’s no fence separating the yard from the main road. Well, the husband died recently. I don’t think it was from poisoning, they seemed happy, at least when I saw them. The wife flagged me down one day, asking if I could mow her lawn. She said I reminded her of this gimpy house-painter she once knew, only I had better arms. I filled the gas tank and took the mower over. Her lawn’s difficult, you know how that one side slopes toward the road? Almost lost control, nearly Red Rovered my ass over four lanes of traffic. I finished and waited at the doorstep, greasy, grassy, and salty. She didn’t have any money but handed me a loaf of bread, said it was right outta the oven. I smelled it and smiled to be polite. She said the neighborhood cats eat it, so it probably wasn’t so bad. When I got home Amy said the bread was nice, but something with Ulysses S. Grant’s picture would’ve been nicer. The next time I went, same thing, I filled up the tank, unloaded it, only that time my blade got caught on some collapsed trellis wiring which had woven into the grass. Took twice as long to untangle all that mess, wasted half the day, you know how I hate that. By that point, my blade clunked around like shoes in a drier. I had to stop. I left a little mohawk of weeds near the house. She said I could finish it the next day, and if I wanted to use her as a reference she wouldn’t say anything about how I left jobs half-done. She handed me another loaf. I tried telling her I was already in the hole forty bucks on gas, but she shut the door. Can you believe it? Amy was furious, she broke the bread open, then took out a bag of Wonder Bread saying, look, it’s the same thing! And that I wasn’t going back. This woman, I swear, she’s memorized the sound of my engine. Every time I drive by her yard now, that silver head of hair parts through all that overgrowth like warm butter.

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