that second sunday in october

So--as promised, get ready for a week or so worth of a short story I wrote this semester. It will give me something easy to post while I get through finals! As a small warning, the story does contain the word d*m* -- which I hardly ever say myself, but which no other word worked quite the same as in the story. You'll probably also recognize some of my own personal stories (Rheumatic Fever, my father being killed in a motorcycle accident, etc) that I've shared here on the blog as being traits of various characters in this piece. Anyway, hope you enjoy the read :) . And now I present.............

THAT SECOND SUNDAY IN OCTOBER

I read a poem once about a man on his way to the doctor's office and how, at the end of his long country driveway, he remember he forgot his book and decides to back for it. From that moment, he begins to see a shade of himself everywhere he goes--the man a few people ahead of him in line, or the one just slipping out the door before he does--his double, just bumped an inch into the future; the one who didn't go back to the house for the book. I've spent a lot of time thinking about that poem. About the outreaching effects even the smallest decisions we make can have. Like the one I made that second Sunday in October. The weekend Anupam Raju sold kettle korn.

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I sell orthopedic shoe inserts in my uncle's kiosk. We operate seven days a week in a large outdoor flea market in Costa Mesa--do very well too, as people ten to think about their feet and how much they hurt when they're walking around outside for hours. It's a fitting job for a single, 30 year old woman who lives with her mother.

Our kiosk is situated between the heirloom tomato seed stand and the one selling kettle korn. Jerry Ecker is the popcorn man. We talk often, when things are slow. Mostly about how slow things are. He's in his early 60's with thinning black-gray hair and oversized glasses. Even away from the popcorn, he smells persistently of warm sugar.

Half-way through October, Jerry decided to take the whole week off. He was going to go to Sacramento for his niece's wedding and staying to visit family, maybe tour a winery. I figured he'd just close down for the duration of his trip like he had the few times he'd been gone before. He hired someone to take his place instead. I couldn't see the new guy at first, but I heard him. He spoke with the thick, lilting Indian accent that seemed to enter through my left ear, sprinkle some glittery stupidity on my brain, and slide out the right. All morning long, that song of a voice vibrated the thing walls of my kiosk.

About 11, I left to use the restrooms, purposely taking the long way around to cross in front of the kettle korn stand. And there he was. The voice. Standing over a massive copper pot, stirring syrup with a long, wooden paddle. His arms moved in a wide circle, muscles flexing and releasing through the motion. His jaw set firm, his dark eyes intent on the work. He had perfect skin--an even brown-gold, glowing as the sun wrapped itself around him and scattered light of the glassy black of his hair.

I finished in the bathroom, taking a minute to study my reflection in the cloudy mirror hung above the sink. My red hair--half-curly, half-straight--was tucked behind my ears, a slight sunburn pinking up my flour-colored skin. My hands smoothed over my plain white shirt--down the narrow of my waist and over the ample of my hips. Using my fingers, I started to try and manipulate some sort of style out of my hair until I remembered that no one who buys orthopedic shoe inserts really cares what you look like anyway.

TO BE CONTINUED...