Back In My Neighborhood

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"Of course, that was assuming you didn’t ask where the car’d come from," he added offhandedly, pulling the Porsche back onto the highway. "You could be particular about that if you wanted, but then you’d have to pay a bit more."

"Oh?"

"Local guy ran the biggest stolen-car operation in the state," he replied. "Small-time mobster, name of Magliore. Half the teenagers on my block were working for him – running errands, or… ‘supplying’ him with stock. All under the table, of course."

His passenger frowned. "How dreadful. I assume you weren’t involved in all this."

"Are you kidding?" he asked, eyebrow raised. "I was one of Magliore’s boys before I’d even learned how to ride a bike. How did you think I learned how to hotwire cars?"

"Well," his passenger sniffed, her frown deepening. "At least you’re old enough to know better than to mess around with any stolen cars."

There was expectant silence for a moment; finally, he coughed. "Sure. Of course I am."

Ran

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"Spare some money for gas?" Elly called, as a smartly-dressed man approached her on the sidewalk, head tucked down into his collar against the cold. The smartly-dressed man gave no indication that he had heard her, and she sighed inwardly and pulled her jacket a bit tighter. It was starting to snow, and she wished yet again that she had on something warmer.

For about the millionth time in the last couple hours she glanced back over her shoulder, checking that her car was still parked by the curb. Not that anyone could steal it with the tank dry as it was, of course. She'd run it till the very fumes were used up. Run it as far and as fast away from home as possible. "Or what was home, anyway," she muttered to herself, and then made a sound something like a laugh. Not that the situation was particularly funny.

"Spare some money for gas?" she repeated yet again, as two women passed by. One of them gave her an odd look, then quickly turned away; they both sped up slightly, as though wishing nothing more than to escape from Elly's request. One of them tittered brief laughter as they disappeared into the thickening snowfall.

Elly shivered, then uttered a series of deep coughs. Stupid to have left without coat or hat or even a pair of gloves; stupid to have left with a dollar sixty-three in her wallet. Stupid to have even done this in the first place, but she'd had to do it, she just couldn't take any more...

Making that not-quite-a-laugh sound again, Elly felt gingerly at the latest bruise on her face, the one that had been the reason for her sudden flight. "Never again, you bastard," she said through a humorless grin. "I don't even care if I freeze out here, as long as you never get to hit me again."

Stamps

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Marissa sat behind the wheel of her car, idling in a parking space outside the post office. She nodded to old Mrs. Foster as the latter was walking towards the building's front door; then she bolted up in her seat as the front door flew open and a small form barrelled down the sidewalk, nearly plowing into the woman. Pete stopped just long enough to apologize before speeding up again. He was breathless and giggling by the time he had gotten into the passenger seat of Marissa's car.

"Peter," she said sternly, "What have I told you about being more careful? You could have hurt Mrs. Foster badly!"

Pete squirmed a bit, looking down at his dirty sneakers. "Sorry mom," he mumbled.

"Now, did you get the stamps? Let me have them." She held out her hand, then raised an eyebrow as her son giggled again. "...Pete..."

"Um," Pete said, and grinned. His right hand had been in his jacket pocket the whole time; now he removed it, revealing a fistful of something, which he gave her. "Here you go!" he added brightly, and then continued laughing.

Marissa stared bemusedly at the mass of stamps in her hand. She had given him three dollar bills, and asked him to buy as many stamps as he could out of the machine; apparently it would have been helpful to specify what kind she actually wanted.

Then she would not have wound up with three hundred one-cent stamps, all crumpled together in a vague coil by a giggling eight-year-old.

"That was fun," Pete exclaimed. "I wanna buy stamps again sometime!"



Um, hey, Brookins and/or Boggess. They still sell those. I've got a small pile of lickable one-centers on the shelf by my desk right now, purchased maybe a month ago from a vending machine at the post office. They have lampshades on them.

Just because a way of doing something is old does not mean that it is not still in use, even in today's crazy modern world.

Quarter Horse

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Leigh tugged at her mother's hand. "Look, mama, they put in a horsey ride," she exclaimed, pointing. "Can I ride it? Can I, mama?"

Judy sighed. The horse had been added to the row of coin-operated rideable sculptures next to the grocery store entrance, on the end by the battered old Dino the Dinosaur. Leigh had never expressed any interest in the old ones, which had been fine by her mother. The fewer frivolous expenses, the more of their meager funds were left for necessities. Still, maybe this one would be only a penny a ride, like the plastic tiger on the other side of Dino. Something like that would be easy enough to let Leigh have a turn on every time they went shopping.

She looked down at her daughter and smiled. "Let's see, then, shall we, love?"

Together they walked over to the horse, a garish pink-and-tan monstrosity that Judy was honestly surprised the girl didn't find terrifying. There, printed on the coinbox, was the legend "1 RIDE -- 50 CENTS". Judy sighed again, and squeezed her daughter's hand. "I suppose you can have a ride, dear, if you want. But only one, okay? We've still got groceries to buy, yet."

For a moment Leigh gazed longingly at the horse, then looked back up at Judy. "I promise, mama, just once. And then I'll never ask again!"

Judy closed her eyes. "Oh, love, I'm sure that won't be necessary. There will be other times you can ride it, okay? We can spare the money now and then." She smiled at the girl then, but the smile was brief, and trembled slightly.

Premiums

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I'm currently (04/14/2010) looking for the image to this one -- it was something about how plugger health care premiums don't go up because for "plugger health care" you should actually read "band-aids and a kiss from mommy on your scraped knee", or something like that. Stay tuned for possible future pictoral update!

Helen looked over the paperwork and sighed. "The co-pays have gone up again, too."

"Cripes." Dan pulled out another of the kitchen chairs and sat down heavily. "How much?" Wordlessly she handed him the page, pointing at the relevant section. He winced. "Bloodsuckers. They just keep wanting more, don't they?" Then he set down the paper and sighed. "How's Joey doing?"

"Not too bad today," Helen answered quietly, eyes cast downward. "But you know, his prescription is coming up for refill again soon."

He nodded. "I know."

She looked up at him. "He's doing so much better with this medicine, Dan. Most days he says he hardly feels any pain at all."

"I know," Dan said again. Then he sighed. "I'll talk to my boss. Maybe he'll let me pick up some more hours. I mean, he said he couldn't before, but..."

"Explain it to him," Helen pleaded. "He'll understand, won't he?"

All Dan could do was shrug. "I hope so," he replied, and then was silent.

History

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"Well, it isn't like I have any war stories to tell," Harry cautioned his grandson. "I was only a boy then -- World War II ended just three days before my twelfth birthday, in fact." He smiled at the memory. "When I was your age, though, it was still going on, and oh, how I wished I was old enough to be a part of it. The excitement, the glamor, the chance to see foreign countries and commit brave and daring acts of courage... we all thought that was what war would be like, me and my friends. Sure, Tommy's older brother had been drafted, and from the letters he sent home, it wasn't nearly as wonderful as all that. But we still dreamed."

Matt's eyes were wide. "Did his brother die?"

"Well, yes," Harry replied with a laugh, "but not just then. He served a tour of duty in England, came safely home again, and died in bed at the age of seventy-four. No, the families in our neighborhood were mostly lucky. Only old Mrs. Haversham's son didn't make it home, and that only because of an accident. He never actually saw combat at all."

"So what was it like growing up during the war?" Matt asked.

"It was," Harry said, and stopped. He thought for a moment. Finally, "Different," he began again, and smiled as the boy settled in to listen to his story. "It was different."

Number Please

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"Gah!" Susannah slammed the phone back into its cradle. "This phone menu was designed by Satan himself!"

Eddie glanced up from his book at her. "You really think that's all he's got to do with himself these days? I mean, on the grand scale of evil, 'confusing phone menus' probably doesn't rate all that high..."

"No, you don't understand," she answered. She sat down next to him on the couch and covered her eyes. "The sheer byzantine nature of this particular menu boggles the mind. In fact, I think to properly nagivate it one would have to go completely mad. The sacrifice of one's sanity to open the gates of understanding, if you will."

Eddie burst into laughter, and then quieted in response to her mock-glare. "It can't be as bad as all that," he said, setting his book down. "Just hit whatever option it is to talk to a live person, and then ask them for what you want."

Susannah pointed to the phone. "You think it's that easy? Try it."

"Okay, okay," he laughed, walking over to the phone and picking it up. "What's the number?"

Susannah recited it to him, and he punched it in and began listening to the menu. She then watched with some measure of amusement as he began entering the occasional menu option, his expression going from attentive to confused to shocked. Finally he hung up and joined her back on the couch.

"You're right," he said to her. "It was designed by Satan himself."

"Told you so," Susannah answered.