Trash Day by Kidd Wadsworth
January 29, 2023 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as humor, kidd wadsworth, Neighbors, short story, trash day
My neighbor, Sterling, complains. It seems I don’t bring my trash cans up promptly. But hey, I’ve got a life, and they’re TRASH CANS!
I’ve got a big brain, too. One morning as I watched Sterling take his trash to the curb and leave for work, I got an idea, a how-the-Grinch-stole-Christmas-idea. I grinned and patted my little dog on the head.
As the garbage truck rounded the corner, I ran down to the curb and drug my neighbor’s still-full garbage cans back up his driveway. When the truck had passed by, I drug them down again.
That evening, eager to see Sterling’s expression, I left work early and returned to find him standing at the curb gazing bewildered at the trash still in his trash cans while mine, and everyone else’s, were clearly empty. The next week, he put his heaping cans at the curb. Quickly, I once again hauled them back up his driveway, returning them to the curb when the garbage truck had passed.
That night, his shouting rocked the neighborhood. “No, they’re not picking up my trash! It’s been two weeks! 110 Paxinosa Avenue!” I felt sorry for the trash guys. Well—almost.
The next week, he had two cans full of trash and three extra bags. It was a trash party! I crossed my fingers, praying he wouldn’t wait around for the truck. He paced on the sidewalk, but after several glances at his cell phone, he got in his light blue Prius, and drove away. I’d barely gotten the trash up his driveway when I heard the truck pull around the corner. On a hunch, I stowed the cans inside his garage and snuck out the back gate.
Wow, talk about dedicated. Those garbage guys actually walked up his driveway and looked around for the cans. They clearly had a note in their hands. They checked his address. Knocked on his door. All this for trash. Impressive.
When they left, I put the cans and the bags at the curb. Took two trips. That night, a volcano erupted next door. I felt a little guilty—not a lot guilty—but a little guilty. I mean, I felt guilty in between giggles.
On trash day eve, nightmares of my neighbor assaulting me with a garbage can lid and a turkey bone rocked my sleep. I woke bleary eyed, to see my neighbor standing at the curb, surrounded by trash. I decided it was time I fessed up. About then, the garbage guys arrived. I ducked behind my window curtains. It was ugly! The shouting, the claims of innocence, “There was no trash!” Shall I speak of the birds shot in the air, the words beginning with … well you get the picture.
About a week later, my neighbor had a backyard barbeque. I brought beer. There were four of us neighbors (right, left and across the street), beers in hand, feet on Sterling’s brick retaining wall, when Sterling told the story.
“No?”
“Really?”
I thought no one knew. But everyone has windows facing the street. When Sterling went inside for more chips, Frank winked at me. Mark held out his hand. “Fifty, or I tell him now.”
I paid.
*
Occasionally, I try humor. Let me know if I got it right.
You can find some of Kidd’s stories in the following anthologies.
For Christmas . . .
December 25, 2022 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth
Give yourself the gift of community.
2020 was my worst year ever. To give you some perspective, in 2019 my dad died, but I do not consider 2019 to be as bad as 2020. In 2006, the high-tech startup I founded failed. In 2000, I miscarried. Why then would 2020, and not one of those other years remain in my mind as the year I most wish I’d skipped.
Let’s start with my miscarriage in January 2000. Yes, it was painful, and discouraging—I was undergoing fertility treatments—but on December 17th my son was born. The trauma of losing a child in the womb dimmed when I held Anthony in my arms.
When my business failed in 2006, I came home to a family that needed me, to neighbors and friends I’d ignored to work on my business. They greeted me with open arms.
When my dad died, I grew closer to my mom. In grief, my family came together.
Each time when tragedy struck, the people around me comforted me, they brought joy into my life. 2020 was altogether different. In 2020, I lost my community.
Yes, I am a liberal, one of those terrible people who consistently votes for representatives and senators that can’t balance a budget to save their lives. I supported wearing masks, but when I put on a mask and walked among a masked people, I sank into depression. I missed the smiles of my neighbors. I suffer from hearing loss and without seeing another’s lips move, I also began to miss and misunderstand the words of others. Conversation became difficult. Because of the terrible speakers on my old computer, Zoom was a nightmare.
I suppose what happened was inevitable. Like a character in a bad novel, the emotions I felt manifested themselves physically. I fell and broke my right leg in two places. Two weeks later, I contracted the shingles. Never having seen the shingles before, I delayed going to the doctor until it was too late for the anti-viral to work. I got the disease in late September. I was finally off the pain medication in mid-January. I left the crutches behind in March.
Finally, have regained some of my former strength, in the summer of 2021, I flew home to Texas to see my family. I even embarked on a road trip traveling by car in a huge lopsided triangle from Dallas to Austin to Houston and back again. Along the way, I saw family and friends—and I talked and talked. Me, the classic introvert, talked. No antidepressant ever lifted a person’s mood faster. The sun shone brighter. I had more energy. Food tasted fantastic. Life, like a cherry blossom, bloomed for me.
Finally, I understood. I needed other people. I needed community.
This year I’ve made a new resolution. Yes, I need to exercise more. Yes, I plan to write another novel. Yes, yes, yes, there are so many things knocking on the door of my mind, calling out, demanding attention. But this year is the year I will give myself a different kind of gift. This year I plan to consciously seek out community.
I will listen quietly to my friends. When they are suffering, I will reach out to them and offer what help I can. When they are celebrating, I will wink and buy a sugary scone to share with them. When we are separated by distance, I will write to them long letters and phone at least once a month. I will plan visits. I will travel to see them.
I will slow down when about my daily chores, taking time to speak to strangers, to greet and smile at them.
I will carry in my pocket at all times two ten-dollar bills, so I will have something to give to those in need whenever I encounter them.
I will become an active member of a group which is seeking to positively impact our environment.
I will seek out a supportive faith community and both listen to them as they speak about their beliefs and dare to talk to them about mine.
I will try to be God’s friend.
Wishing each of you a Christmas brimming over with the laughter of friends and family,
Kidd
2 0 Read moreHi, May I Help You, Please
November 25, 2022 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as flash Fiction, kidd wadsworth, short story, teens, Texas
I was sixteen and working my first job at Wendy’s Old Fashioned Hamburgers. We were a lively crew. Jerry had the front register, Juanita and Javier were making sandwiches and scooping fries, Greg had the grill, and I was on the back register.
It was a hot day, scorching hot, hot as only Texas does hot, when the big boss, the district supervisor, left his skyscraper in Dallas and drove down to inspect and grade us. He didn’t know, and didn’t care, that we enjoyed the camaraderie of our team, took pride in our work, and routinely invited our family and friends to come to the restaurant. His opinion of us was all too clear in the way he strutted about, his huge smile never touching his eyes. It didn’t matter that the restaurant ran like a well-oiled machine; we were lazy hoodlums that needed to be whipped into shape. After he’d chastised Jerry and the others for trivial mistakes—I believe Javier wasn’t properly using the pickles to spread out the ketchup on the bun—the district supervisor meandered on back to my register to judge me.
Just so you know, I might have inherited a bit too much Texas ornery, Texas gall and Texas stubborn. Of course, I personally don’t think a person can have too much ornery. And gall, life is just plain boring without gall. Stubborn though . . . well . . . stubborn does tend to get a person into trouble.
Ding.
I stepped on the pedal. “Hi, may I help you please?”
Through the speaker came a broad Texas accent I easily recognized, “Yeah. I’ll have fries, a large Sprite, a single, with cheese, tomato, everything and extra ketchup.”
Reader, are you paying attention? The customer said, “Everything and extra ketchup.” Javier, standing not ten feet away, ears pricked to the speaker, laid a bun open on the sandwich board. Greg dropped a single patty of meat dripping melted cheese onto the bottom half of the bun.
I wrote the order down on the outside of the takeout bag. Fries, lg sprite, single, cheese, tomato, everything, no mustard, no mayonnaise.
Right on cue, know-it-all-supervisor-guy spoke, “He said extra ketchup, not no mustard, no mayonnaise.”
I didn’t bother to turn my head and look at him. No, that would’ve been polite. Instead, I opened the bag and put it on the end of the sandwich station and spoke with my back turned toward him. “But he meant no mustard, no mayonnaise.”
Without seeing the supervisor’s face, I knew his fake smile was history. Tension vibrated from his body. After all, time was running out. The car would begin rolling forward any second. If he wanted to clarify the order—
“Ask him if he wants mustard and mayonnaise.”
At the sandwich station, Javier never paused. He kept right on making the sandwich—with no mustard and no mayonnaise. I always liked Javier. Juanita dropped the fries into the open sack and gave me a wink.
The district supervisor repeated, “Ask him if he wants mustard and mayonnaise.”
“I will not,” I said, pulling the drink. “He’s already given me his order.”
The beast shoved me aside and stepped on the pedal. “Sir, would you like mustard or mayonnaise on your sandwich?”
The customer’s loud Texas twang echoed through the speaker, “NO! I told ya, I only want ketchup!”
I tried and failed, to keep the grin off my face. Javier chuckled as he put the neatly wrapped hamburger in the bag.
Yeah, we were only teenagers, working a summer job for minimum wage, but we knew how someone from our hometown ordered a hamburger.
You know, that big boss, that supervisor guy from the corporate office, he didn’t say another word to me all day. Sometimes you’ve just gotta love that Texas stubborn.
Kidd has stories in the following anthologies.
Kidd Wadsworth is also the author of the fantasy novel “The Death of Magic” which you can now read for FREE at https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/59915/the-death-of-magic
0 1 Read moreGet Me Outta Here!
October 25, 2022 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as day surgery, fiction, kidd wadsworth, panic, short story
Get Me Outta Here!
by Kidd Wadsworth
We arrive at 6 am. I sign a piece of paper which informs me of the risks of my day procedure using phrases such as “unforeseen side effects, including death.” A plastic bracelet is secured around my wrist. Promptly at 7 am, I kiss my husband goodbye and follow a stern-looking nurse through a side door. She points me to a changing room.
“Nothing on underneath. Only the gown.”
I obey.
She takes my clothes, my shoes, my underwear. I am left barefoot in a nearly see-through gown I hold shut in the back with a tight grip on the gaping cloth.
“Lay down.” She points to a narrow bed on rollers.
Again, I obey.
Three seconds later, I have a tube in my arm. Another nurse takes my blood pressure and my pulse. “Did you have anything to eat in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“No cereal, no fruit, no bread, no banana . . . “The list continues. On and on.
“No.”
“If you’ve had something to eat, I need to know.”
“No, I have not had anything to eat.” Does she think I’m lying?
“This form says that I’ve asked you if you’ve had anything to eat and you’ve said, no. Sign here.”
I sign.
Too late, I realize I didn’t read the form. As she walks away, I almost call her back, but that’s stupid—isn’t it? I mean, why am I so nervous? This is just day surgery.
They wheel me away down a hallway, into an elevator, and then into a room crowded with people. Surely this can’t be correct? This is minor surgery. What are all these people doing here? I count fourteen. Really? Fourteen?
Two nurses or doctors—let’s just call them people in scrubs and masks—strap me down to the table.
Why straps? Do they expect me to try to make a run for it?
“Just relax,” one of the people who had strapped me to the table says.
Does he really think the phrase, “Just relax,” makes people relax? I think unstrapping me might make me relax.
Above me lights, so many lights, perhaps fifteen or twenty, glow brightly, each one with a shiny metal hat to direct the beam. Moving my head slightly from side to side, I intently examine the fixture. Something’s wrong, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Then I realize that although the fixture is polished and highly reflective, I can’t see my reflection on any surface. Someone has deliberately designed the fixture so that I, the patient, cannot see myself strapped down to the operating table.
My heart pounds in my chest.
I gasp for breath.
Calm down. It’s only day surgery. This probably isn’t a horror movie. Surely, they aren’t going to harvest my organs and sell them overseas or implant an alien fetus in my uterus.
Yet, there is something about those lights, as if no one wants me to realize what a precarious position I’m in. Precarious? No, helpless! And the masks? Of course, they are wearing masks. That way I can’t identify them in a police lineup when I finally manage to escape and notify the authorities.
As every instinct in my body screams, “Get out! Get out now!” the nurse/doctor/whatever who had strapped me down, injects something into my IV.
I want to shout, “No!” But I don’t. Afterall, what can I do? I AM STRAPPED TO THE TABLE!
“Count backwards from a hundred,” he says.
I try to control my shaking. “One hundred.” I am so obedient. Why am I so freaking obedient?
“Please keep counting.”
“Ninety-nine . . .”
I’m an educated, adult woman. Why did I allow someone to strap me, nearly naked, to an operating table in a room full of strangers?
Strangers?
My doctor? Where is my doctor? Am I in the right room? What if there’s been some clerical error?
I realize I never read the name on my bracelet.
What if they think I’m someone else? What if they amputate my leg or remove my brain!
I lift my head, straining to see the thin slip of plastic. I can’t quite . . .
I wake in recovery. Home by super. The operation is a complete success.
Nope, never going back.
Kidd Wadsworth is the author of the high fantasy novel: “The Death of Magic” which you can read for free by clicking here: https://www.scribblehub.com/series/588059/the-death-of-magic/
NOT GUILTY
September 25, 2022 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as Funny stories, writing, Writing Humor
———————
To my Writer Friends,
In the following piece, first the reader watches as the trap is set. Then the action is drawn out allowing the reader to fully anticipate the moment when the trap will spring shut. Finally, the climax comes, the poor unsuspecting victim is caught, and we, along with our protagonist, almost feel guilty. I find this type of humor easier to craft than any other form.
Give it a try,
Kidd
______
NOT GUILTY
Kidd Wadsworth
I think I have screwed up DNA. Amidst those A’s, C’s, G’s and T’s I must have a J or an L. You see, I just don’t feel guilty. Nope. Sorry. Well, actually I’m not sorry. I don’t even feel guilty for not feeling guilty.
I suppose it was the 1980s. My dad scores four Ranger baseball tickets. Dad invites me, my brother-in-law Curt and my boyfriend, John, to go with him. On the day of the game John shows up with his mitt.
I grin. “You brought your mitt?”
“I’m gonna catch a ball.”
We have great seats. Right behind the catcher. In front of us, are some Yankees. Not baseball player Yankees, but rather, you know, northerners, fellas rooting for the other team. We give ’em grief, and they give it right back. Yup, we were having ourselves a real good time.
And all the while John sits in the seat next to me punching his fist into his glove.
Now behind us, about 10 rows up are two little old ladies. I mean they are Hollywood type cast: skinny, white-haired, wrinkled, but spry. Nolan Ryan isn’t pitching that night, so the rest of the seats are empty. It’s just us, the Yankees, and the two grannies.
Up to the plate walks this stocky dude. Whack! The ball flies over the backstop and what do you know, the little old ladies catch the ball. I kid you not. I told you they were spry. Twice more he fouls, then strikes out. As the dude hustles on back to the dugout, an evil idea forms in my mind. Being guiltless I can’t resist. It’s like trying not to sigh when you drop into the hot tub.
“John,” I say adding a dose of southern bell to my Texas accent, “would you get me some nachos?”
He looks at me like I’m the stupidest woman on the planet. With that look, his fate is sealed. I mean, I’m guiltless, but occasionally I do take pity on people. But after that look? Poor, poor John.
“How can you ask me for food at time like this?” he says. “Did you see that foul ball?”
I lean in closer. Oh, did I tell you that I’m cute?
“John,” I have the southern belle accent going again, “please.” I draw out the word please until its twelve syllables long. I kiss his cheek. “Besides, this is a different batter. He’s gonna hit that ball somewhere else. You know that.”
He sighs. As he gets up, I say, “Leave the mitt.”
His eyes narrow, like he’s some Neanderthal looking at a creature he’s thinking about killing and having for dinner. I hold out my hand and smile, oh, so sweetly. He rolls his eyes and hands me the mitt. Ten seconds later he disappears behind the stands, and I get up to go talk to the sweet little old ladies. Yeah, you got it. They’re not quite as innocent as they look. I ask to borrow their ball. One shakes her head. The other smiles like the Chester Cat. I return to my seat with the ball tucked into the pocket of John’s mitt. Below me one of the Yankees says, “You’re an evil woman.”
I smile at him, oh, so sweetly.
Two batters later, John returns with my nachos. I’ve still got that borrowed ball snuggled into the pocket of his glove and the glove folded closed around it.
Now, I should pause here and tell you that Dad and Curt haven’t said a word. Dad because it’s Mom’s DNA I inherited and he gave up a long time ago, and Curt because my sister got the DNA too, and Curt believes John needs to be prepared for his future life of agony should he choose to propose.
As John starts to sit down, I proclaim, “John, John, I caught a ball. I caught a ball.” Of course, immediately everyone is paying attention: Dad, Curt, the Yankees, and the little old ladies, but they don’t say a word. No, not one word.
John rolls his eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really. It just sailed over the net.” My eyes go up in the air like I’m watching an imaginary ball. “It came right to me.” Here, I pause, for dramatic effect. “Well, actually it came right to your seat, but I just reached over and caught it.”
“You did?” He rolls his eyes again. I’m getting real tired of that.
“Yes, I caught a ball.” I act all excited.
“You caught a ball.” Again, with the eyes.
“Yes,” I say, like I’m truly hurt that he doesn’t believe me. “I caught a ball.”
“Well, then.” He gets this disgusting smirk on his face. I mean how dumb does he think I am? And he says, “So, where is it?”
My face, my pulse, my sweat glands would have stood up to a CIA lie detector test. I reach into the pocket of that mitt and like I’m so happy I’m about to burst I say, “Here it is.”
Oh, the look on his face. Like a little boy whose puppy just died. I almost feel guilty. Really. I ALMOST did. You know, there was this brief twinge of, of, of . . . something. But it disappeared.
He sinks dejected into his seat. Those Yankees shake their heads. Ten rows behind me I hear smothered giggles. I get up, and as John watches, I hand that ball back to the little old ladies. Everyone bursts out laughing. My stomach aches from it.
Of course, when I try to sit back down, I have to climb over John. He refuses to move his legs. Doesn’t give me any nachos either.
0 0 Read more
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