Typeractive Tales: A Collection of Clean Short Fiction Read online

It took exactly forty-seven seconds for the prison door to slide open. After spending six years, four months, fifteen days, ten hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-nine seconds behind bars, you would think I had learned patience, but you’d be wrong. I learned to wait. Patience is different than waiting.

  My lawyer was there to greet me with his politician’s smile when I walked out a free man. “How does it feel to be exonerated?” he asked.

  I stared right through him for five whole seconds but didn’t answer the question.

  He had never served a day of time in his life and nothing I could say would make him understand. On top of that, his efforts didn’t set me free. While he cleaned out my savings account, I gave information to the Feds until the case broke, and they arrested the real criminals. Now he wanted to stick me in front of the cameras and bloviate about saving innocent people. I never even smiled for the camera, and saved my energy for more important matters.

  When the press conference was over, he pulled me aside and put on his courtroom face. “She’s here in the U.S. now. She wants to see you Jack. She wants to apologize.”

  She was Beatríz—chocolate skin, brooding black eyes, and even blacker hair. She told me she loved me. She told me she wanted to marry me. I believed her, right up to the point when she betrayed me.

  I wanted to see her too, but not to apologize.

  I jumped in a cab and headed for the rendezvous location so I could hear her apology, or something like that. The sky was a crisp blue with puffy white clouds, the perfect kind for cloud chasing, just like the day they hauled me to jail and clipped my wings. All I ever wanted to do was fly, but jailbirds don’t fly. They flap their wings in the yard like some fat chicken, but never get off the ground. Beatríz had betrayed me, and her betrayal kept me on the ground for six long years. Now it was time for payback.

  The cab pulled up and I saw her sitting in front of the Starbucks with sunglasses on. She stood when I got out of the cab, and for a moment I thought she was going to rush over and hug me. I think the look on my face stopped her.

  She took off her sunglasses when I walked up. “Hola Jack, it’s good to see you,” she said.

  I stood there with my arms folded and didn’t say anything.

  She reached out to touch me but drew back her hand. “I’m very sorry.”

  I glared back and sat down. I was trying to decide if a Starbucks cup could be used as a deadly weapon. Several other people sat at nearby tables engrossed in their phones. I wished I had insisted on meeting somewhere private, someplace without cameras, or witnesses.

  She sat down and slid a cup across the table. “It’s dark roast, just the way you like it.”

  What did she know about what I like anymore? How could she possibly think that an apology over a cup of coffee could set things right between us? I ignored the goodwill gesture and asked, “What do you want?”

  She looked at me with brooding eyes. “I know you’re angry, but it really wasn’t my fault.”

  “Angry? Not your fault?” I began to mimic her pleading voice from six years ago. “‘Por favor, Jack! It’s just one suitcase. My cousin is in the hospital and needs these things. You don’t even have to take it to him. Just get it on the airplane and a family member will pick it up in baggage claim. Please!’”

  I was happy to see a tear roll down her cheek. My rage searched for a way to extract revenge on the spot, but six years of learning to wait kept me from it. I waited at least a minute for her to speak.

  She wiped a tear and said, “They threatened to kill my family if I didn’t convince you to carry that suitcase for me.”

  I knocked the cup of dark roast off the table and stood. “So you chose your family over me? I was expendable? You didn’t trust me enough to let me in on the secret?” I leaned forward and grabbed the small metal table at the edges gripping for something to control my rage. “You stole six years of my life!”

  I stood there grasping the table and clenching my teeth as hot breath surged in and out of my nose. She put her face in her hands and began to sob. I wanted to somehow extract six years of pain in sixty seconds. I noticed that a man sitting nearby stood and began recording with his phone. I glared at him, like only a convict can, making him cower and mind his own business. I released my grip on the table and sat down again.

  I checked my watch. I had waited six years, four months, fifteen days, twelve hours, forty-one minutes, and eighteen seconds for this encounter. The exact moment of my revenge had arrived and in the end it felt more hollow than an empty prison minute. I looked up at the sky, the deliriously burning blue, and longed to escape the heavy emotions that had kept me on the ground. I realized that revenge would only serve to ground me again, and I could never spend another second as a jailbird or another minute unable to fly. The moment I had waited for was not to be filled with revenge, but with release of the past that weighed me down like sandbags on a hot air balloon.

  I stood to go. “I don’t care anymore. I just want to get on with my life.”

  Beatríz slid an envelope across the table. “He loves airplanes. He has your eyes and looks just like you.”

  My pale hand trembled as I reached out for the sealed envelope. A knot formed in my stomach and worked its way up my throat as I tore it open and revealed the photo. I cradled the photo in my hands and gawked at the almost six-year old face of my son. He was holding a red toy airplane.

  The Milk Run

  by Brock Booher

  Deputy Crawford sat in his cruiser with the window open enjoying a ham sandwich and the warm spring night when his radio came to life.

  “Dispatch to Crawdaddy,” sang the radio.

  The diligent deputy swallowed and picked up the mike. “This is Deputy Crawford. Go ahead.”

  “Your wife called, Crawdaddy. She wants you to pick up some milk on the way home tonight.” Laughter echoed over the airwaves as the dispatcher held the microphone button down after making his transmission.

  “I would remind dispatch,” spat Deputy Crawford, “that county regulations do not allow for personal transmissions over official frequencies.”

  “Okay Crawdaddy, forget I told you to pick up some milk on the way home, but don’t ask me to explain to your wife how you came home empty-handed when she has hungry mouths to feed.” More laughter.

  “I would also remind you to refer to me by my official title of ‘Deputy Crawford’ when you address me over the radio.”

  “Sure thing Crawdaddy.” Laughter erupted again.

  “Deputy Crawford out,” snarled Raymond Crawford, the newest deputy of Jessamine County.

  He polished off his sandwich and washed it down with his Coke. “I get no respect,” he mumbled to himself as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They stuck me out here on this country road because of a bogus tip and tease me over the radio.” He spat out the window and shook his head. “No respect.”

  A black Camaro zipped past with the lights off.

  “What the devil!” Deputy Crawford flipped on his lights and brought the cruiser to life. He burned rubber as the tires connected with the asphalt and the black Camaro disappeared around the next bend. Deputy Crawford grinned at himself in the mirror. He loved a good chase. It reminded him of his days on the racetrack before his wife made him quit racing and get a real job. County regulations didn’t prohibit him from modifying his cruiser, and he had taken the liberty of upgrading and improving his machine. He was on the Camaro’s bumper in less than two minutes.

  The black Camaro pulled over and came to a stop. Deputy Crawford shined his spotlight on the license plate and ran a background check—nothing out of the ordinary. He tucked his ticket book under his arm and slipped from his cruiser, adjusted his belt, and kept one hand on his gun as he approached the vehicle. The black Camaro had the windows tinted, but the driver had turned on the dome light and rolled down the window. Deputy Crawford gave a sigh of relief when he saw the driver’s hands on the dashboard, but didn’t take his hand off of
his gun.

  “Going a little fast, ain’t we?” asked Deputy Crawford as he approached the open window and shined his flashlight at the driver.

  “Sorry officer, I was just trying to get home to my babies.” The woman’s voice was silky smooth and dripping with penance.

  Deputy Crawford gawked at the woman in the front seat. Her hair was blacker than the Camaro and her doe eyes were as brown as the leather seats. Her blouse seemed to be missing a few buttons. “Wh . . . wh . . . why such a hurry to get home to your babies?”

  She batted her eyelashes and shifted in her seat. “I’m breastfeeding twins and I’m about to pop.”

  Deputy Crawford swallowed and loosened his collar. “Twins? Uh . . . license and registration please, uh . . . ma’am.” He dropped the beam of the flashlight and shifted his focus to the car hoping she couldn’t see how flushed his face was. He shined his flashlight along the smooth lines of the machine and tried to stay focused on doing his job. He loved fast cars—the sound of roaring engines, the smell of burning rubber, the feel of pushing the suspension to the limit in a turn. He shined his flashlight at the tires and wrinkled his brow.

  “Here you go officer,” said the woman as she handed him the requested papers. Her hands were reddish and rougher than he expected.

  He looked over the papers. “It says here you live in Madison County.”

  “Yes sir, out in the country all by myself . . . with my twin babies.”

  “Then what are you doing in Jessamine County going away from Madison County at a high rate of speed?”

  She sighed and adjusted her blouse. “You got me officer. I don’t have twins.” She smiled a devious smile. “I’m on my way to a little secret rendezvous and the excitement of it all made me drive a little too fast.” She winked. “You do know what its like to get . . . excited, don’t ya?”

  “Uh . . . yes ma’am,” replied Deputy Crawford as he pushed up the rim of his hat with his flashlight. He shined the light at the car. “You mind telling me why your car is setting so low on its suspension?”

  She leaned out the window letting her blouse open even more. “It looks fine to me.”

  “I’m going to need you to open the trunk,” said Deputy Crawford as he focused on the sleek lines of the Camaro.

  “The trunk? Why?”

  “I suspect that you are transporting beverages from unlicensed producers for sale on the black market.”

  Her face turned sour, and she buttoned up her blouse. “You got a warrant?”

  “Don’t need one. I pulled you over on a legitimate traffic stop and saw evidence of a crime. The law gives me the right to investigate.” Deputy Crawford shined his flashlight in her face and put his hand on his gun. “Now, open the trunk.”

  The driver shook her head, leaned forward, and popped the trunk. “See for yourself.”

  Deputy Crawford grinned when he opened the trunk and shined his flashlight – the tip was right. The trunk was full of large mason jars packed in coolers of ice. It was the mother lode. He strode back to the front of the car. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have ask you to step out of the vehicle.”

  “For that?” she said as she pointed her thumb at the rear of the vehicle. “That ain’t hurting nobody.”

  Deputy Crawford straightened himself up to his full height. “Kentucky Administrative Regulation 902 prohibits the transportation, or sale, of raw milk. I can see from your red hands that you do the milking yourself. On your way to Lexington to sell it to some unsuspecting city folks?”

  “Look Deputy, it’s milk for crying out loud. It ain’t like I’m running moonshine. It’s milk! You know, cow juice, moo-moo, crème de la crème—MILK!” She shook her head. “Don’t you have something more important to do, like catch REAL criminals?”

  “A criminal is someone that breaks the law. You are clearly in violation of Kentucky Administrative Regulation 902, and that makes you a criminal.”

  She shook her head. “Do you starch your own underwear or do you make your wife do it for you?”

  “Now just a minute . . .” Deputy Crawford stopped midsentence. He scratched his chin with the butt of his flashlight. He grinned. “I believe that the regulation does allow you to share the milk with friends and family. You wouldn’t happen to be visiting family in Jessamine County would you?”

  The woman’s mouth fell open. “Uh . . . why yes, I am visiting my aunt Susie. She lives in Jessamine County. She loves my milk.”

  “That looks like a lot of milk for Aunt Susie. Do you think you could spare a little for friend . . . in law enforcement?”

  When Deputy Crawford turned his cruiser down the lane to his house at the end of his shift, he had two mason jars full of ice-cold cow juice on the back floorboard, each with a thick layer of cream at the top.

  BROCK BOOHER