Short Story | Fred Aiken Writing

April 17, 2023

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

The first gift I open is dental floss. Oral B, to be specific, which I guess is something special. At least it is a name brand that I recognize and isn’t the store brand. I’m hoping that it’s a one off. The next gifts will be better, I tell myself.

Deodorant. Shampoo. A cantaloupe.

Is this all? I ask.

What do you mean? Do you not like them?

It’s not that…I mean, well, yeah, no, I don’t like them.

But you use those things every day.

Yeah, I do. You’re right. But I guess that’s kinda the point. They’re basic hygienic products and food that I use every day and, well, today’s kinda special, right?

I suppose.

And for such a special day, I dunno, I was kinda hoping for, you know, special gifts.

Special gifts?

Yeah.

I don’t see what you mean.

Look, these are things that you get at the grocery store each week. Things that both of us use on a daily basis. They’re not special, right? They’re just common, mundane, everyday sort of products.

Alright.

And today…well, it’s supposed to be a special day.

I don’t see how or why.

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m at a bit of a loss for words. An impulse to strike him comes to mind, but I suppress any violent thoughts or ideation. I start with the breathing meditation my court-ordered therapist taught me. It rarely works, but it gives me pause. I’m reminded of the words the judge said the last time I was in court: This is your last shot. Either you get control of your temper and start acting your age, or you go to jail.

While I have never been to jail or prison or been in handcuffs without it being related to some sort of kink, I’ve watched enough reality television shows about being locked up to know that when a stern-faced, handle-bar-mustache man in a long black ritual robe tells me to stop messing around or end up in jail, then it’s time to take anger management therapy a little more seriously.

But even the threat of imprisonment isn’t enough to make the whole therapy thing seem a bit cuckoo-for-coco-puffs.

I show up each Wednesday afternoon at the office of Dr. Gwen Forsthye. Her office is located in a strip mall with a fraction of the shops actually occupied. The parking lot has way too many potholes. And the overall infrastructure of the strip mall can be summarized as needs improvement.

Each week we discuss my feelings and how I’m feelings and whether or not I felt any anger or anxiety or happiness or depression or any sort of feeling that isn’t on the approved list of feelings a therapist might want me to feel, which after eight weeks of the same routine I am guessing is the feeling of ambivalence. But I’m not positive.

I try not to pay too close attention to what goes on in anger management therapy. It kinda all pisses me off.

But I do recall the breathing exercises, though I might be making them up and remember them from some movie or show I saw where either the main or an auxiliary character had anger issues and a therapist character told them to breathe. Calmly breathe. But I don’t think they were dealing with their family giving them basic toiletries as a gift.

I remind myself that it’s the thought that counts. It’s the thought that counts. It becomes my internal mantra. A silent chant I whisper in my head as I close my eyes, count to ten, become aware of my presence in the universe, and breathe in, out.

Are you feeling alright, babe?

Yeah, yeah, I think I’m good. I wasn’t for a second. But I think it’s going to be alright.

Did you need me to grab you something? I could always go back to the store.

Do you think you can grab some Ben & Jerry’s? It’s been a while.

Because they’re so damn expensive. You sure? I don’t have a coupon for them this week.

Why should that matter?

Because we’re budgeting. Because we have a child on the way. Because there’s probably some sort of mind-control device or chemicals in those pints. I dunno, pick one, but there’s plenty of reasons why we shouldn’t get them.

But only one good reason to get it, right? Because your pregnant wife is asking you to do this one small favor on this one special day.

You keep referring to today as special. I don’t get it. Why? What’s so special about grocery shopping day?

What? You don’t know?

I don’t. Sorry.

Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. Maybe I need to go stay with my parents until you figure it out.

Are you feeling alright?

Of course. I’m not the one that’s completely ruining today.

Stop it! I haven’t ruined anything. If you want to go be with your parents, then go. I’m not going to stop you. But if you want to be an adult, explain to me why you’re so damn upset, and then maybe we can figure this out and resolve the issue together.

He sounded too reasonable. Suspiciously reasonable. I knew right then and there that my husband had been replaced. A clone. A pod person. An alien wearing his skin. It didn’t really matter. All I knew was that my husband was gone, perhaps forever. I was left with the facsimile of him. Some cheap carbon copy.

This might sound like too elaborate, or circuitous, of an explanation as to why I shot my husband with a shotgun. But I can assure you that it was justifiable. Anyone in my shoes would have done the exact same thing. So, go ahead, charge me if you have to. I won’t dispute what I did. But I can guarantee that there’s not a jury out there, not a single one of my peers, that would ever convict

April 14, 2023

Details in the Shape of a Wormhole

I dyed my hair purple earlier. That’s not relevant to the story, but I thought I’d throw it in there as a conversation starter.I received a phone call from Audri. She was hysterical. She sounded like a harpy filtering words through a theremin. She said something happened. I gathered. She said she needed help. She needed me to come get her, rescue her, become something akin to her savior. Where are you?The hospital—Which hospital? I can barely hear you.You’re not going to like it…but I’m in the hospital in another state.Like the next state over?More like in a state in the next dimension over.Another dimension? I didn’t understand. She seemed to be intentionally obfuscating. I don’t like obscure details. Audri knows that about me. I’ve told her before that I don’t appreciate it when she doesn’t tell me what’s going on straight and to the point.You’re going to have to be a little more clearer, Audri. I don’t know what you mean.Well, you know I started that new job…I’m a stewardess now. Or is it flight attendant? I think it’s the latter. That sounds more modern. Yeah, no, I’m a flight attendant now. I learned there’s these lounges, like VIP sort of lounges, in every airport, even the small ones in obscure towns that no one’s heard of. They’re kinda like little employee club houses where pilots and flight attendants can go in order to take a break, get something to eat, gossip, and smoke a joint without the prying eyes of the TSA. I think certain passengers can go into these lounges, too. I’m not certain of the requirement, though. Maybe it has something to do with how often they fly, or the social circles that they run in, or maybe it’s because their haircut is particularly cool and people like their swagger.You’re rambling.Yeah, I know, you’re right. My point is, there are these super secret cool fancy lounges at airports that I’m able to go to now that I’m a flight attendant. Well, one day a veteran flight attendant, Ryan, I think his name is, well, he showed me that there is a secret part of these secret lounges in all these airports. All very hush-hush and secret. These secret wormhole portal things were built into these lounges that can be used to go from one dimension to the next.So, you went into another dimension and, what, got food poisoning and now you’re stuck in another dimension’s hospital?Not quite, but the exact specifics aren’t really important. I need your help. I kinda need you to come get me.The specifics aren’t important? You’re going to ask me to go down to the airport, somehow manage to sneak into one of these super secret lounges meant only for airport staff and VIP passengers, then somehow manage to find yet another super secret portal to another dimension, go through this supposed wormhole to hopefully find the dimension that you’re in, and then find you in a hospital in a completely different reality? And you’re not going to explain to me how you got there?I never said I wouldn’t explain…someday. It’s just not important, well, today, right now. Time is of the essence, sorta.I’m going to have to disagree. I’m going to have to disagree very adamantly with that assumption. Alright, I get it. I’ll explain. But right now, I need your help. This dimension, I gotta say, it’s different. Really different. It’s a dimension in which people evolved backward.So, what, humans were somehow civilized and advanced and slowly degraded over time into complete savages?No, I mean, their bodies are physically backward. I don’t know how else to explain it, but it looks as if they walk and talk and do everything in a backward fashion. At least to us it looks backward. But to them it’s completely normal, you know, because that’s the way they’ve always been. It’s what’s natural to them.So, what’s the problem with that? I mean, it’s weird, but I guess it makes sense. A different reality in which different rules exist in that reality.Well, and this is where it’s become somewhat of a problem for me, but they think there’s something wrong with my physiology. Or maybe they’re just fascinated by my body like no one in our reality is, including myself, and they want to study me.Alright…And by study and/or fix, I mean they want to dissect me like a bullfrog in biology class.I see.I’m freaking out here, man. I need you to come here and rescue me. I need you.I don’t doubt that you need help, I really don’t. I’m just not certain I’m the right person for this job.You’re my best friend.She says that too often. She says it primarily when she feels the need to guilt trip me into doing what she wants, or, on a rare occasion, what she needs.Like the time we were in third grade. An older girl, Steph, I don’t know how much older, but she was definitely in the fourth grade. I think there was a rumor going around that she had been held back, which was probably true. But the rumor also exaggerated that she had been held back ten times and might possibly be in her late teens, which of course was not true. Either way, though, Audri did or said something that upset Steph, and Steph’s reaction was swift. Her reaction was resolute. Her reaction was to pulverize Audri’s atoms into liquefied plasma that would leave no trace of Audri’s existence. When Audri’s parents came to pick her up from school, there would be nothing left of her body to identify, or so the threat went.Actually, now I remember what Audri did to piss Steph off; we were playing kickball at recess. It was Audri’s turn to kick. The pitcher gave her a rather easy roll, and Audri went to kick the ball, as the name of the game would suggest, and ended up kicking the ball in such a way to cause it to veer off towards the jungle gym. The ball veered off and curved right into Steph’s face, who happened to be going down the slide at the time. The entire scene took less than twenty seconds to play out. It was a complete accident. Anyone could see that. But that didn’t matter, at least not to Steph. Punitive retribution would need to be doled out.Audri had that look on her face in the third grade that I would get to witness ad nauseam throughout our childhood and now into adulthood. The look of someone that realized their life was malleable to the whims and whimsy of another person and/or force, and now she had to deal with her own mortality. She wasn’t ready to deal with her dog Rucker’s mortality the previous spring, so it was no wonder that she wasn’t even remotely prepared to acknowledge in that moment that she might be seriously, even fatally, injured.So, she tagged me in, so to speak. I couldn’t recite verbatim the exact phrasing Audri used in order to get me to fight Steph, but somehow she did. It began a pattern of proxy battles and struggles that would come to define our friendship. I tried to escape it. When I went to college, I refused to take any of her calls or respond to her emails for the entire four years I was there. But somehow I couldn’t avoid the inevitable gravitational pull of Audri’s existence.The fight with Steph did not go well. I ended up receiving a broken nose, which did not go over well when I tried to explain to my mom, especially since picture day happened to be the next week. Now I have a permanent shrine of what and how far I would be willing to go to help and protect Audri.I’m certain my mom asked me once or twice in high school if Audri jumped off a bridge, then would I do so as well. To which I predictably and derivatively answered, Get bent, mom, before storming off and resolving even more so to stay friends with Audri from then on.All this to say that I knew from the moment she called, no matter what stupid thing it was this time, I was probably going to get roped into helping her.I feel obligated to say at this point, so no one gets the wrong idea, that Audri and I’s friendship isn’t one-sided. And I promise, it’s not a legal disclaimer; I actually mean this. You still there?Yeah. You?Yeah, I guess. So, are you come rescue me or what?She wanted me to somehow get past airport security and personnel to sneak into some secret club to then find some secret portal into another dimension where humans evolved differently and find her in a foreign hospital where some unnamed, unknown forces wanted to autopsy her for purposes that were still unclear. I think this time Audri was overestimating my capabilities to get her out of this mess. Which isn’t to say that I wouldn’t try. Her requests never really felt like requests.I don’t know how I can help, but I’ll try. I’m going to have to call an Uber, though. My license is still suspended.Awesome. Don’t worry about paying for the Uber, I’ll pay you back. After we hang up, I’ll also text you the details of where to go specifically. I called an Uber. The bit about my license being suspended isn’t entirely true. In fact, it’s not true at all. I’m just not a fan of driving. I especially don’t enjoy driving around the airport. I have this irrational fear that airplanes are massive combustible pieces of metal that can only defy gravity for so long before crashing down and all the passengers are trapped like sardines in an explosive can. Needless to say, I do not like being near planes. I do not like flying. I’ve never been in one my entire life. Never needed to be. Probably better if a trained professional drove me around the airport so I didn’t hyperventilate before I even got through the first terminal of the airport.My Uber driver’s name was Rafael. He had long, dark-brown hair that he tied in a bun. He looked college age. Young, sleep-deprived from either studying or partying too much. His red Hyundai Sonata smelled faintly of marijuana covered up by a yellow tree-pine scented air freshener. Rafael didn’t talk much. I appreciated his reticence. He also didn’t play any music, which was another plus for me. We spent the car ridge in complete and utter silence. I even think he had installed custom windows to block the noise of traffic. It was perhaps one of the best Uber experiences I had ever had. It felt like driving in a kangaroo’s pouch, though I’m not speaking from personal experience.But just as I was enjoying the perfectly blissful car ride to one of my least favorite places in the world, a loud pop punctuates the silence, followed by a series of disturbing grumbles from the flattened tire trying to limp across asphalt. Rafael audibly curses, but tries to keep it subtle to not come across as rude. He turns back and me and we share a glance of understanding.Sorry, he says.Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.I know. But I still feel responsible. I’ll hail you another Uber so they can take you the rest of the way.To be perfectly honest with you, I think this might be a sign. I mean, I’m not really big on signs, like cosmic messages, but I feel like I might make an exception this once. I hate planes. I really wasn’t looking forward to going to the airport.I don’t blame you there.His responses seemed to be auto-correct cheerful, as if he was in a default customer service mode and no matter what he said it would all have the same intonation. He asks if I want something to eat. He has some trail mix and chocolate covered almonds to snack on in his glove compartment whenever he’s driving for long stretches and needs a quick pick-me-up. Wouldn’t the chocolate almonds melt?Not with how quickly I eat them. They’re usually the first to go.I’m fine, thanks.So, why do you hate planes?They’re unnatural, I say. I feel as if I’m about to be roped into a conversation to defend a phobia I know to be irrational, and it will not matter how much I resist. I briefly mention a fictional childhood trauma. That normally stalls out any questions from thenceforth.Rafael goes quiet. After a moment or two, he apologizes again, though I figure he’s apologizing for something other than his flat tire this time. But I can’t be positive. Maybe I have one of those faces that needs the adjacent conversational person to apologize to.Why were you going to the airport if you don’t like planes all that much?Is it twenty-questions night for Uber drivers? I don’t say that. Instead, I tell him something more ridiculous; the truth.I was going to help out a friend that works as a flight attendant and somehow got herself stuck in another dimension using some weird secret portal located in some clubhouse that the airport employees hang out in.Wow.Yeah, I know. Crazy, right?Yeah, it really is. Especially since I happen to have a portal to another dimension in the trunk of my car.What?Yeah, I don’t think they’re standard in all Sonatas, but I buy used cars and I guess the previous owner had a portal to a different reality installed in the trunk. I’ve tried it out a couple of times. But traveling to different realities kinda gets old pretty quickly.You don’t say.He walks me back to the trunk of his car. For a brief moment I wondered whether this was some ruse to get me in the trunk of his car before he hit me with a tire iron and dragged me to a remote location that he referred to as his killing place. But, lo and behold, the trunk of his car pops open and a swirl of violent blues, purples, and green sway mesmerizing in a static puddle. It is exactly as he described it, a portal to another dimension.Does it work? I ask.Of course.I meant to ask if it was safe?Yeah, it’s safe. I think. At least, I’m not aware of any scientific studies conducted on portal travel that would suggest it will kill you over time, like by giving you cancer or something. I’ve used it plenty of times. I can assure you that it works. But then again, what’s life without a little bit of risk.I guess.You’re more than happy to use it yourself to go help your friend. It’s the least I can do since my tire blew out.I appreciate it…I guess.Before jumping through a portal into another dimension to face the unknown, Rafael looks me in the eye and says, I like your hair. I tell him thanks as I crouch into the trunk of his car and disappear into a dimension that I hope Audri is in. I guess my hair wasn’t as irrelevant to this story as I thought.

April 12, 2023

Waking Up to My Wife’s Hair

I woke up to not one or two or a few strands of hair in my mouth, but rather an entire mouthful of cherry red hair sticking to the roof of my mouth, invading my nostrils, completely enveloping my entire head. My first thought was that I had been transported to an alien world where the environment was completely covered in some weird, foreign flora that resembled the texture of hair. But then my senses kicked on, logic settled, and I realized that I was still in my own bed, next to my wife, and her hair had somehow found its way onto my head, as if it had a mind of its own and wanted to not only be the natural hair of my wife but also act like some sort of de facto, unwanted wig for me as well. Perhaps my wife’s hair was becoming cognizant and wanted to expand. The Napoleon of hair.

I refused to be invaded. I would not tolerate this transgression of my wife’s hair. A reasonable person might just roll over, but eventually I believe any reasonable person would realize that within the throes of slumber there would and will always be the possibility of accidentally rolling back over and yet again being awoken by the hair over and over.

I needed a more permanent resolution.

After nudging my wife in the hopes that she might come to her senses and do something about her hair, she grumbled incoherently and did nothing. She was too far gone in REM. She had once slept through a fire alarm in her dorm room in college from when some stoned, drunk twentysomething senior down the hall burned popcorn in the microwave. She routinely sleeps through violent thunderstorms and holiday fireworks that easily and routinely wake me up.

Part of me feels as if I need to justify myself, to perhaps explain why I did what I did to what many would probably describe as a small infraction, if that. But I know it wasn’t right. I know I was just being an asshole.

Groggily, I got up, went into the bathroom, found the small pair of scissors that I primarily use to cut and trim my facial hair (though there was also that time I tried to cut my pubic hair with them, but accidentally nicked myself in the most unfortunate of locations on my body and vowed to never do that again, or at least not without any professional help), and I cut my wife’s hair. I did not cut all of her hair off, as she tried to claim once she woke up and realized what I had done. I feel it was a reasonable amount to be cut off in order for me to go to sleep without the threat of her hair invading my space, yet still retaining the bulk of the hair’s shape.

But, needless to say, she did not appreciate the impromptu hair style I gave her. She’s been in the bathroom for the past two hours crying. She hasn’t said much, other than I ruined her hair. I know I shouldn’t have made such a unilateral decision about her hair without consulting her first. But, and this might sound a bit cruel, though I hope not too much, I did finally get a good eight hours worth of sleep on the couch from there on out.