SWEET EMO

She chuckled every time she got into her van as she wondered why she still had that damn license plate on its rear. Why she hadn’t just traded it in years ago? Her husband and kids assumed it was because she loved the song (which she did) but that wasn’t the reason behind it. Some mornings when Tiffany was at her whiniest, complaining about her closet filled with brightly colored Abecrombie and Juicy Couture outfits, Linda dreamed of dropping the bomb. But she never did.

It was already a lifetime ago, a lifetime long before marriage and kids. It was a part of her, like the long closed up piercing on her eyebrow that she tells her friends was earned in a brutal fall years earlier. Other than the license plate and that scar, there were no witnesses to her youthful indiscretions. She had moved far away, tossed away all the photographic evidence. Once she had decided to accept the role of Mrs. Martin Chase, she had given it all she had, willingly releasing the hold the past once had on her.

Mrs. Martin Chase, hah, what a joke that had turned out to be. Married to the richest family in the region should have been a blessing. Never again having to worry about money or creditors, letting someone else be responsible for her happiness. Martin had seemed like a godsend at the time.

They had met when she interviewed for a secretarial job at the Company. She had come dressed for the part – no black nailpolish or lipstick, her outfit subdued but had once been fashionable. Linda had been scheduled to meet with someone from Human Resources, but Martin had spotted her as she exited her black VW bug.

“Nice plates! I love that song!”

Linda had looked at him oddly, trying to figure out what song he was talking about. It hit her quickly, ‘Sweet Emotion.’

“Um, yeah, great song.”

He had reached out his hand to shake hers, holding it a little too long for her comfort.

“I’m Marty Chase, I run this place since dad retired last year. I know I look too young to be running a fifty million a year company, but dad trained me well.” He looked her over, his eyes lingering over the swell of her breast, “You must be the girl they sent to fill Sandi’s spot.”

“I’m not sure. I’m Linda, I’m here to interview for an executive secretary spot.”

“Yup, that would be the one. I’m not sure it would be suitable for someone as special as you.”

Linda’s heart dropped, she was counting on this job. The bill collectors were at the door and if she didn’t start bringing home a decent salary, they’d repossess her car and most of her life. “I’m not that special,” she remembers answering.

He chuckled. “I’m joking with you. I think you’d be a perfect fit and will be sure to tell Holly that on one condition.”

She looked at him confused, “what condition?”

“Dinner with me tonight. I’ve been looking for someone like you for a long time.”

She had gotten the job, gone to dinner with Marty. Three months later, she had given up the job for a better position, that of Mrs. Martin Chase. Her new job entailed looking good, dressing right, entertaining Marty and his colleagues and keeping her husband happy. It wasn’t an intellectual challenge, but it beat worrying about bills.

Sometimes, she wondered what her high school friends would think of her life now – money, leisure, a fifteen year old princess and a ten year old jock. She read her hometown paper on line, no one there knew how to find her. Even is she showed up, they’d never recognize her without the black shoe polish black hair and the studded leather collar she used to wear to classes. Those were the days, she sighed, thinking about those amazing Jawbreaker shows. Her record collection, her combat boots and her piercings had all been sacrificed to the duel alter of conformity and marrying money. The only remnant of that life was her treasured license plate.

Now that she thought about it, the only thing funnier than appearing at the reunion would be to explain to her husband and kids that her license plate meant exactly what it said, SWEET EMO.

She got into her van, and slid in her special cd, cranked The Smiths to eleven and took off for her carpool duties.

By: Lauren J. Walter May 25, 2009

The Perfect Strike

“No. I can’t do it. I’m already late,” Stan yelled before he slammed the door shut and raced to his car. Even in his rush, his BIG STAN license plate made him smile for just a brief second. It was a beautiful night, so the top of his Mustang was down and the cool night air surrounded him. Adjusting himself in the driver’s seat, he checked the rear view mirror. All clear, Stan shifted into reverse and rolled out of the driveway.

Shifting into first, he sang “bowling night, bowling night” to the Flintstones’ theme song, forcing the words to fit into the tune. He pushed down on the accelerator, only seven minutes left before the semis start, got to get there.

He flew past the stop sign, not even bothering to pause. Stan remembered when they installed the stop sign on Maple, absolute waste of tax dollars and a shining example of over governing. He shook it off and thought about rolling his ball down the lane. He relaxed; that’s makes the rest of the week bearable. Watching his ball slam against those painted wooden pins gave him a release that made sex seem dull. Sometimes he wondered whether his wife suspected that he got a bigger splash from a strike than from their bi-weekly tumble. Those encounters were so predictable, so monotonous, so boring. He wished Anne didn’t enjoy it so much, so he could stick with his porn and Joanie the office receptionist. Discovering Joanie considered blow jobs neither sex nor cheating had been one of the greatest moments of his life.

The parking lot was already packed. He maneuvered his Mustang into a space far from the front entrance and jumped out, bowling bag in hand. Stan caressed the shiny blue bag, pleased with the way the sparkling white words ‘Big Stan’ popped. When his old bag began begun shredding, Anne had surprised him with this beauty and it served him well. Amazingly, she had managed to match the exact color of his ball. It was a work of art.

Stan squared his shoulders and put an extra bounce in his step. So much of the game was mental, his entry had to have just the right amount of swagger. So he strode into the lanes, awaiting the welcome cry from his team. Sure enough, the yell of “Stan” reverberated through across the lanes. He smiled and lifted his hand to high five Bud.

“What took you so long? You’re not gonna have a chance for a practice frame.”

“It’s me Bud, when have I ever needed a practice frame?”

“This is the semi-finals Stan, don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not cocky, just honest. I don’t need a practice frame, just a practice beer.”

Bud chuckled and reached for the pitcher and a clean glass. He poured the amber fluid into the glass with a practiced hand so that there was just the right amount of white foam floating on the top. Stan watched admiringly, “you really have the touch.”

“Years of practice,” Bud responded.

Downing the beer quickly, Stan motioned for a refill. Raising an eyebrow, Bud began pouring,

“Rough day Big Stan?”

“They’re all rough days lately. Thank god for beer and bowling night.”

Bud poured himself half a glass and clinked it against Stan’s, “To bowling night and beer! Now get your ball out and let’s kick some ass.”

Downing his second beer as quickly as the first, Stan banged the glass down onto the table. Wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand, he picked up his bowling bag. Stan bounced down the three steps leading to the lanes, a broad smile plastered across his face. He took his usual seat on the curved couches that surrounded the scoring table and unzipped his bag. Slowly, reverently, he removed his ball. There was nothing Stan loved more than the metallic blue of the Cobalt Meance. Carefully, he wiped its surface with the soft rag he kept in the bag, inspecting it for any imperfections. Finding none, he rose to his feet and walked to the ball return, placing the Cobalt Menace in its favorite location – farthest from the return. He stopped to gaze down the lane, making sure it recognized its master. Then Stan walked back to his seat, “Let’s get ‘em rolling.”

The semis were best of one, so tonight really mattered. Stan was always the last bowler for his team, and tonight, the boys were in good form. His four bowling bros all landed either strikes or spares, while there adversary had one open frame thanks to a nasty split that refused to go down. Stan took his mark, Cobalt Menace poised right below his chin. “Focus” he thought to himself, staring down the one pin. With that he took three mighty steps and lofted the ball down the lane. Boom! The pins flew and he was off to a perfect start.

By the third frame, he was working on a turkey and aimed true. His teammates rose to their feet as the ball knocked down all the pins. “Stan!!!” they chanted. Thanks in large part to his magic ball, they were ahead by nine pins. High fives all around.

Stan sat down, ready for his frame four beer. He had the beer/bowl ratio down to a science – one beer every four frames, joined together with a pre-tenth toast. Bud poured him a cold one, and Stan drank it right down.

“We can do this Stan, just stay on track. Stay focused. We need you to be on your best.”

“I’m always on my best, Bud. Always.”

At the end of the eighth frame, Bud was in the zone, totally and completely. Seven strikes. One right after the other. He was riding on Cloud Nine. The team was ahead five pins, thanks in large part to Big Stan’s parade of strikes. A perfect game had never come his way before. Three hundred was in sight. He sat down and reached for his beer. His hand shook just enough for a splash of beer to hit his jeans. Stan told himself to steady as he lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed. Three more balls with three more strikes and this night would go down in infamy. He would finally get his 300 t-shirt, the one he’d been dreaming of since he was a kid playing bumper ball.

Sure enough, frame nine, strike. Both teams erupted in cheers. It was now bigger than the semis. It was all about the next ball. Bud had Stan’s beer waiting, and Stan held it carefully, not wanting anyone to see the fear and excitement that coursed through his body.

Frame ten. The gap between the two teams had narrowed. Stan’s team was ahead by only one pin, and it was Stan’s turn to roll. The entire house had quieted, everyone was focused on Stan’s quest for perfection. He held his hand over the fan, trying to make the sweat disappear along with the nerves. He picked up the Cobalt Menace and held it close to his chin, whispering to the ball, “c’mon baby. We can do this.” Focused, he took three strides and let it loose, watching as it lofted down the alley, coming down about ten feet from the foul line, straight and true. Sure enough, it crashed into the one pin, causing the rest of the pins to bow down to his might. The entire house erupted into applause and whistles. Stan didn’t hear anything. One more. One more. Just one more. Please.

He held his hand over the fan once again, waiting for his ball to ride the rail back to the holding pen. Picking it up, he steadied it, whispering “now.” Three strides, boom. It was over. Perfection was finally his. Finally. Even better, it secured the guys place in the finals. They were all moving on.

Stan returned to the bench, as back slaps and high fives surrounded him. This was his night. He wanted to remember every second. Someone handed him an ice cold pitcher, and he drank straight from the lip to celebrate. He couldn’t stop smiling. Finally.

Twenty minutes later, he stumbled out to the parking lot and walked to his car. He put the bag holding the Cobalt Menace safely in the back seat, patting it once more as thanks. Turning the key in the ignition, Big Stan put the car into reverse and was on his way.

As he drove, he told himself, “three hundred. I’m perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Once again, he blew by the stop sign on the corner of Maple and Pinetree this time colliding with a bright blue Hummer. The force of the impact lofted the Cobalt Menace into the air, and it came to stop against the back of Big Stan’s head.

Strike.

By: Lauren J. Walter March 23, 2009

H82W84U

Steven caught sight of his son peering out the window; acknowledging the SUV with the license plate H82W84U was idling in the driveway. Steven tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to keep his blood pressure from soaring. He reached over and fiddled with the radio dial, trying to find something with a soothing, calming sound. No luck. Every station he tried was either trying to sell used cars at a decibel level usually reserved for construction sites or playing the loudest, most raucous music they could find. Even the soft, elevator music station that Maria had programmed in long ago was part of the conspiracy. He twisted the radio off with more energy than he had intended, thankful that the knob had not come off in his fingers.

He resumed his steering wheel tattoo. Waiting. Always waiting. Why on earth were they incapable of moving at a speed other than slow? Those children had his DNA, they should be capable of promptness. Instead, they mimicked their mother, dawdling and delaying, taking advantage of every possible delay tactic available.

You’d think that by now, they would have learned that all their painstaking efforts to delay departure only created hostility. On some level, they seemed to revel in that fact. They got off on pushing their dad’s buttons now that their mother no longer had the privilege. He shook his head, irritated.

There was a time when he was happy. Wife, kids, even a puppy dog; all laughing and smiling. That puppy got into everything, yet the bigger the mess, the more they all grinned. Even Steven would laugh at that damn mutt. After tearing up a pillow, sending feathers flying into the air, the midget mongrel would smirk, tiny little pieces of down outlining his lips. It looked like the poor mutt was foaming at the mouth. The kids ran screaming from the room, while Harpo followed at their heels, leaving the grown-ups to clean up the mess. He remembered pulling Maria close and dipping her so low that feather fluff got tangled in her long dark hair.

That seemed so long ago. When did it all go wrong? Where had all those years gone? He reached up to wipe his eyes, than he resumed his drumming. Far better to be angry, at least that was a powerful emotion. Not like sadness. Steven avoided sadness whenever humanly possible. No one would ever witness him weak. That was a pledge he’d made as a child, when his dad had whipped him for crying over a broken toy. No one since had seen a single tear. It wasn’t easy, but he held it together. Always.

His marriage had fallen apart the day the dog died. They blamed him for that and for everything. Thinking back, Steven conceded it was at least partly his fault. They were late, and he was rushing. He backed out, never realizing that Harpo had escaped behind the kids. Feeling the bump, Steven had felt a rush of fear. Throwing the SUV in park, he jumped out, only to find that sweet little monster crushed beneath the wheels of his vehicle. He had kept it together, holding back the tears and the emotion so he could handle the situation.

That was the moment it all came crashing down. The kids never forgave him. Maria blamed his anal qualities for the death of their beloved Harpo. Somehow, Harpo’s death freed them to hate him. He never quite understood how, but it did. They were divorced within six months, and Steven was banished from both the house and the family. He lived alone now, in a cold, three bedroom apartment that allowed the kids to spend time with him. They never did. There was always an excuse or reason to return to Maria’s house.

And now he sat. Waiting, while they dawdled inside just to piss him off. It was the same every other week. Leave dad sitting in the car, fuming, so they’d be justified cutting the visit short. He tried to be patient, tried not to let it get to him.

But the license plate said it all.

By:  Lauren J. Walter  November 25, 2008

This is yet another in the license plate series.

GANDLF

He first set foot into that magical world thirty years ago. Memories of those first reads always made him smile; bringing back the excitement and thrill of discovery. When John devoured The Hobbit for the first time, he stayed up way past his bedtime, reading surreptitiously with his flashlight until the wee hours of the morning. He got his first (and only) ‘C’ during that time – the late night consumption of books did not agree with his study habits.

John had soon learned that discussing his new found passion for Middle Earth placed him in either the geek or freak circles; shunned from the strivers group he had fought so hard to belong to. As a result, he stopped talking about Tolkien and the excitement of Middle Earth, keeping it all inside. After his homework was done, he’d map out the battles using different colored paper to represent the different races in the squirmish, while old chess pieces represented the real players. Even now, thinking about the Battle of Minas Truth got him excited – plotting with the good, the bad, the orcs, the urukai, the dwarves, elves and men.

Sometimes he was amazed he’d been able to hide his obsession for so long. The white car he bought senior year for $873 that he had saved from paper routes and birthday money had been named Shadowfax. He had told his friends it was because of the band, but really it was after Gandalf’s trusty steed. Shadowfax had served him well through college and even into his first job.

John loved Gandalf like a brother. Every time John reread the series, Gandalf’s takedown by the Balrog caused him to weep like a baby. He made sure to read that part in secret, when he was sure he was alone and no one could walk in on him. When Shadowfax was finally unable to transport him, he bought his first new car and splurged on vanity plates – GANDLF. When asked, John would tell people the plate stood for “Great and Living Fine.” It was easier then telling the truth.

Eventually John married Katie. They had three children – a boy and two girls. John’s car continued to sport the GANDLF plates – it was one thing he refused to compromise on. Like in childhood, John would read his Tolkien late at night, after Katie had fallen asleep. It was like an addiction – if he didn’t read the four books at least every six months, he felt actual physical pain. He couldn’t wait for his children to be old enough to discover the joys of Middle Earth for themselves.

One night, while fiddling on his computer, John googled “Middle Earth.” Much to his amazement, an entire world of opportunities opened wide. There he found games, reenactments, a treasure trove of Tolkien related items. He checked his pulse. No he hadn’t died and gone to heaven. Within minutes he was hooked. He stayed up late that night, wearing the colors of Gandalf the white, battling Sauraman. By the time he crawled into bed, it was after three.

Bleary eyed, he went to work in the morning, swearing he would never set foot on line again. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. When he got home, he checked his emails, and there were invites for new games from some of the folks he had gamed with the night before. Without realizing it, he was sucked in. Every night, he’d race off to his computer, eager to speak elvish with his new friends. Finally able to share his love.

Katie was concerned. Her husband was spending way too much time at the computer. She called her sister for advice, and got a lecture on the evil of cyber porn. After a month of his absentee husbanding, she confronted him. “Honey, I think you have a problem.” John looked flustered, fearful that his secret was about to be revealed. “This cyber porn has to stop. I promise, I’ll do more to make our sex life better. But I can’t stand the thought of you looking at naked women on the web anymore.”

John thought about it for a minute, Gandalf was looking out for him. He nodded, “I’m so sorry Katie. I’m so glad you’re willing to work on the issue with me.”

This is another in the license plate series.

By:  Lauren J. Walter  September 23, 2008