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Literary fiction

I Just Wanted to Help

August 15, 2016 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

I Just Wanted to Help

It was shortly before one o’clock on Sunday afternoon. I was sipping a cold cup of coffee while reading the news on Facebook, a habit I find pleasurable despite the incessant reports of violence and corruption. The daily phantasmagoria reminds me that, while the world might be losing its way, at least my moral compass still points north. I’ve also become rather addicted to iced coffee.

My wife was busy chopping bell peppers for lunch, and I was doing my best to ignore her, when she suddenly yelped.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked, not looking up from my iPhone.

“Nothing,” she said in a labored voice. I heard a clink as she set down the knife, and I looked up to see her grimacing as she rubbed her left hip. “It’s just this sciatica pain. It’s bad this time.”

This will be my wife’s fourth and final child. Her previous pregnancies were uneventful, besides the giving birth, of course, and even that was over and done with in one push. But this time my wife has had every pregnancy related malady in the book. (There is a book, by the way: What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Spoiler: Don’t expect anything good.) I’m not sure if it’s her way of cashing in on all the sympathy she missed out on the first three pregnancies or if she really is experiencing chronic discomfort, but she does seem to experience it most often while I’m relaxing.

I took a slow sip of coffee, returning to the news. “Why don’t you take some ibuprofen?”

“I can’t. If we had Tylenol, I would take it, but we keep forgetting to pick some up. It’s really bothering me, though.”

She meant I keep forgetting. She also meant that she would like for me to stop what I was doing and go purchase some Tylenol for her right now. But she’s been terribly oblique and moody this pregnancy, so I didn’t push it. I sighed, took one last drink of coffee, and pushed back from the kitchen table.

“I’ll go pick some up for you,” I said resolutely.

She protested, but only halfheartedly, and soon I was lacing up my shoes. She thanked me and kissed my cheek, which helped relieve my annoyance. But it was Sunday, after all, and I didn’t really have anything else to do. Anyway, I was hungry, and the idea of choking down another bell pepper salad made my stomach clench.

A few minutes later, I pulled into the Smith’s parking lot. I took out my phone and texted my wife:

At Smith’s

Let me know if you need anything else while I’m here

The sidewalk leading to the Smith’s entrance was filled with outdoor swings and hundreds of clay pots in a Southwestern style. When the pots were first set out a month ago, they were ridiculously overpriced at forty dollars a piece, but now each one boasted a 70% OFF sticker, making them only completely overpriced. They aren’t worth half of what they’re asking. It’s just another marketing scheme, another greedy company looking to shake down the American people, another compass pointing south.

When I reached the point on the sidewalk where the pots and outdoor swings forced foot traffic into the street, I became delayed behind an old woman with diaphanous white hair, bent nearly double, pushing a walker with tennis balls on the feet, moving at negative speed. I couldn’t pass her by way of the street because of an enormous pickup that was slowly cruising through the pedestrian crossing.

That’s why you don’t go out when you’re this old, I thought. Doesn’t she have family or a caretaker to run her errands?

After what seemed like an hour, the truck passed, and I skipped around the woman, muttering a sarcastic apology.

As I rounded the last of the outdoor goods, I saw a collection of images that triggered an instant understanding in my mind. A greasy sign made from the side of a discarded cardboard box; deeply tanned skin under filthy, nondescript clothing; a rusty coffee tin set out on the floor with a scrap of paper taped around it — taken together, I knew I was about to encounter one of life’s more pathetic constituents: the homeless beggar.

There were two of them, a young mother and her daughter, who couldn’t have been more than ten. They were both too thin, and the little girl wore a vacant expression that made my stomach feel cold and hollow, the way I imagined the inside of one of those overpriced pots felt.

I reached for my wallet, knowing I had a few dollars on me that I was willing to part with, but then I removed my hand. I waited until I passed in front of them, until they saw me, until the mother said:

“Please, sir. We are hungry.”

Then, I made a show of it. I took out my wallet, grabbing all the bills without looking, and handed over my money with a most saint-like expression on my face.

“God bless you, sir,” the woman said in an accent I couldn’t place. It might have belonged to any of those far eastern countries that no native-born American could identify on a map with confidence. It was an exotic, dangerous accent, and I suddenly felt like I understood everything about this tragic pair’s life.

God bless me indeed, I thought. I don’t believe in God (how can I, the way the world is headed), but it must be uplifting for two degenerates to encounter a man who just wants to help. I replaced my wallet and strutted off without a second glance at them.

When I entered the store, I found a woman engaged in a desperate struggle to separate two small shopping carts, which had become entangled together. She became so agitated that she actually lifted both carts several inches off the ground and brought them back down with a metallic crash. This obscene gesture gained her nothing except a few turned heads from passersby. I shook my own head at the display. Some people just don’t know how to act in public.

I had watched this battle for several seconds, patting my thighs and willing for this woman to either triumph over the carts or to give up so I could collect my own cart, when a young couple, who had just finished their shopping, came up behind me to return their cart.

“I’ll take that, thanks,” I said, grabbing the cart and directing it toward the sanitation stand.

I pulled out several wipes and cleaned the handle bar. I placed the other wipes in my basket, just it case (it truly is disgusting what people do when they think no one is looking). Then I went on my way, leaving that silly woman and her struggle behind.

As I ambled up and down the aisles, I couldn’t stop thinking about the beggars. I wanted to congratulate myself on my benevolence, but now that didn’t seem right. My initial sense of complete comprehension regarding their lives had faded, replaced by an uncomfortable doubt.

Were they really so desperate, or did they make more money at begging than I did at web development? Was it all a scam? Had I been a fool to give them money?

My mind was so distracted with these thoughts that I spent a half-hour touring the store with nothing in my cart to show for it. This won’t do at all, I thought at last. And so I decided that their authenticity didn’t matter. Should I avoid every good deed because of doubt? That kind of attitude is exactly what’s wrong with this country. Who was I to judge? If they were gypsies, so be it. If they were truly in need, then all the better. Anyway, it was only three dollars.

My thoughts turned to my stomach as I spotted some yogurt on the shelf. I lifted a large tub of Chobani to read the label, but the tub was slick, and it slipped from my hands before I could catch it. The top burst open when it landed, and thick globs of yogurt spewed onto the floor.

I glanced around, hoping no one had seen my accident, but saw that I was alone in the aisle. I quickly picked up the tub, replaced the lid, wiped away the excess yogurt from it, and placed it back on the shelf with the others. Then I decided I wasn’t in the mood for yogurt and moved on.

After a few more rounds through the store, I settled on a large baked chicken and a cold soda. I began checking out at one of the self-service kiosks and found myself wondering if my three dollars would actually help that mother and her little girl. I would hope, if it were my wife and daughter, that someone would be as generous as I had been — more generous, in fact. After all, was three dollars really enough? How many people stopped to give them money?

I felt that disturbing, pot-like chill in my stomach again as I fed the machine my money and took my receipt. I left the change (don’t you hate the feeling of change in your pocket?), grabbed my bags, and headed for the exit, leaving my cart abandoned near the kiosk. But before I left the store, I saw the mother and daughter through the sliding glass doors, still standing there with their sign, and I stopped.

As I watched, three people walked by without so much as a turn of their heads to acknowledge them. I felt an uncomfortable heat replace the chill in my belly. I really am too optimistic about the human race, to think that anyone would stop and help. 

I remembered the hot chicken in my bag. I could give it to them, give them a warm meal to go with the money. But no. What if they didn’t eat chicken? (Can a beggar afford to be a vegetarian?) And, also, what would I eat? I looked back into the store, considering. It’s only six dollars for a whole chicken, and it wouldn’t take me long to get it. But as I looked, I saw that old woman, the one with the walker who had blocked my path, standing at one of the registers, making a horrible face and lifting her hands out of her reusable shopping bag with a look of bewilderment.

Her hands were covered in white goo. A phlegmy moan rattled in her throat as she complained in a trembling voice that the yogurt she had just purchased spilled all over a greeting card she had bought for her daughter. The cashier rolled her eyes. She picked up the bag with two fingers, holding it at arms length, and picked up the phone to call a manager. The people in line behind the old woman groaned and rolled their eyes, too.

On second thought, I didn’t need to go back for a chicken. Beggars do alright, otherwise they wouldn’t be begging. I gave them a lot of money — three dollars is a lot to someone with nothing. Yes, there was no need to worry any more about it. All that was left to do was to smile and nod at them as I left, reminding them that there were still some good people in the world. Maybe their gratitude would help ease my mind about the whole thing.

But as I left the store, the mother, in that same slimy accent, said:

“Please, sir. We are hungry.”

I stopped. A man, who had followed me outside a little too closely and had to yank on his cart to stop from colliding with me, sighed his annoyance as he pushed his cart passed. At first I thought the beggar woman must have been addressing him. I stared at her, wanting that to be true, wanting some gratitude in return for my good deed. But in her face, there was none. She was… holding out her hands… to me, looking me straight in the face without a hint of recognition.

“Please, sir,” she repeated, gesturing with her upturned palm.

The heat inside me, which rose a moment ago in pity, flared up in anger. I shook my head and smiled mirthlessly. “No, no, you see, I already gave you money.”

At my negative reaction, the woman waved her hand as if to shoo me away, saying something in her own language that sounded vile. As another customer left the store, she looked past me and delivered her same plea to them.

I wagged a finger in her face, forcing her attention back to me. “I gave you money,” I said, my voice unsteady. “You remember? I gave you three dollars.” I demonstrated with three trembling fingers.

She only flashed her black eyes at me, and then she was asking the next passing customer for money.

I repeated myself, stepping closer to her. She spat at my feet.

Something inside me twisted, a polar flip, and I felt my heart pounding in my chest. This ungrateful, stupid woman. No wonder she had to beg for money. No wonder she was dirty and poor. No wonder she subjected her daughter to such a contemptible life. She didn’t even have the sense to remember her benefactor. She was broken — completely broken — just a shell of a woman, no more human than the chicken in my bag.

“You listen to me!” I said, coming within a foot of her, inhaling her stench. “If you won’t be grateful, then I demand my money back!”

She scowled at me. Her daughter did the same, the expression on her young face no longer vacant, but exuding a hate I wouldn’t think possible in a child so young. I held out my hand, mocking the mother’s gesture, and demanded my money again. She slapped my hand away and began spewing a series of unintelligible imprecations at me, waving her arms hysterically.

I was blind to the world around me, to everything but this hateful pair.

“You worthless bitch!” I yelled, reaching for the coffee tin, intending to retrieve my three dollars by force. But before I could touch it, something closed tight around my wrist and tore my hand away.

I turned to see a huge man, his muscles bulging under a dainty shirt, bald, with a thick goatee and tattoos up both arms, looking down on me in disgust.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Leave that mom and her kid alone or I’ll fix you up.”

I wrenched my arm from his steely grip and stumbled back. I felt all the heat that had occupied my belly rush to my face. Tears blurred my vision.

“I—” I started, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Then I noticed the small crowd that had stopped to watch me, among them, the old woman with the walker and the woman who had battled the carts. Their arms were crossed, their eyes narrowed as they shook their heads and muttered their disapproval of my behavior. They looked at me like I was the problem, like I was the filth. It was too much to stand. I was so embarrassed and indignant that my mind went blank, and I couldn’t do or say anything to defend myself. All I could manage to do was turn and run.

When I reached my car, I yanked open the passenger door and threw in the groceries. I smacked the window with my hand and cursed. I glanced back at the group. They were still huddled around the beggars, pointing my way, probably wondering how someone could be such a heartless monster. But they didn’t know anything. They were the problem. Not me. They’re just too lost to see it.

Then I noticed a small scrap of paper pinned under one of my windshield wipers. I was enraged by its presence and irrationally attributed it to the beggar woman and her daughter. I tore the note free and read:

Hey, you dropped your phone by your car. Couldn’t find you in the store. Put it on the front passenger tire. Be careful. It’s a nice phone. Have a nice day.

I stared at the note, wiping the tears from my eyes so I could be sure I had read it correctly, confused and somehow more infuriated than ever. I turned it over. There was no name or contact information, just the note.

I checked the tire and there was my iPhone 6 plus, a little dent on one corner, but otherwise unharmed. I gripped the phone so hard that I heard the eighty-dollar case groan. I kicked the tire, painfully tweaking my toe. How dare they touch my stuff! They should have let it be. They had no right! I bet they wanted to steal my phone, but couldn’t crack my password, and now they’re trying to pass off their failure as a good deed.

I dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. I gripped the steering wheel, placing my forehead on it, trying to slow my breathing. Then my phone buzzed in my hand. It was my wife:

Don’t need anything else. Thanks for getting the Tylenol. You’re the best!

I let out an intense scream from my gut that would have sent those beggars and their sympathetic morons running had they heard me. I threw my phone against the passenger window. I beat the wheel with the heels of my hands until they went numb.

I had forgotten the damn Tylenol. But it wasn’t my fault — It was that stupid woman and her stupid little daughter! God damned gypsies! I should call the police on them, I thought, on all of them. I should do something. But what was there to do?

Once someone’s compass is broken, what can be done to fix it?

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Filed Under: Adult, Literary fiction, Scene sketch, Short Story, Story sketch Tagged With: Caleb Jacobo, creative writing, Literary fiction, scene sketch, story sketch, writing journal

Scylla on the Sea Cliff

June 30, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Sea Cliffs

Sea Cliffs

The horizon slowly dips; spilling the sun’s rich purples and orangish-reds over the turbulent waves; warming the morning sea. The girl stands on the edge of a cliff from which a low-hanging bridge spans eighty feet of open water to a small island of jagged rocks. A brown tendril of hair flaps against her cheeks. Her taut skin peels and shines in the mist. She bends with spread legs under the weight of her pack: an enormous military backpack which overflows with reels of fishing line, pre-baited with a variety of pastes and small fish, and three segments of fishing pole that stick up from the top at three different angles. She squeezes the pack’s straps across her chest and belly. The black plastic tunic grumbles as she wipes the sweat from her lip. “Come on Scylla,” she says, “you have to do this for father. For the village.”

A wave crashes against the exposed black mussels embedded below and sends thick sea-foam to coat the toes of her high-laced boots. She lifts a trembling left foot and tests the first plank of the bridge with their rubber outsoles. The tacky rubber grips to the slick board so she takes hold of the rope railings and steps off solid ground.

The first few feet of the descent pass quickly. Scylla’s hands squeeze the ropes tightly so that blood leaves them completely. Her teeth are clacking together. Keep it together, she thinks. You’ve made this before . . . but that was in the summertime, and without the extra weight. She reaches a third of the way across when a second wave swells to beat against the bluff behind her and, as it does, submerges the lowest point of the bridge and paralyzes her lungs. She lets herself look over the side and finds the rising tide has nearly hidden the muscles. “I’m going to die.”

She waits in that spot for what she thinks is minutes, but could be only seconds, until the sea releases the bridge and gains an opportunity to cross. She lets her body fall in sync with a few wide swings, drops her weight as low as she dare, then all at once sprints to the dip. She splashes through the pools of collected water in the warped wood then struggles to climb out of it as a third wave begins to swell.

Had her father not traded the sacrifice, had she not been under the heavy pack, had the boots been tackier, then she may have avoided the wave. But as it is, the rising water lifts her feet and she nearly dislocates both shoulders as she falls on her chest while her pack pins her down. She thinks that death by drowning might be preferable to starvation, but then she thinks that her father would have no body to bury, and that her soul might be forever lost at sea, and pushes the idea from thought. She will not end that way, and neither will her people.

She cries out: an enraged roar of defiance that would demand of even the fiercest hunter in her village to flee. “Ahhheeeeiiiiahhh!” and she’s on her feet! The water builds up again and sinks her knee-deep, but she latches with both arms to one side and pulls herself along like she were drawing in her father’s fishing boat. “Eeeiiiyaaahhh!” she cries again as another wave crashes over her. The ropes groan under the strain, threatening to snap at each pitch. Another wave! She pulls, yanks, fights, fights, fights, until—

Scylla lies with her cheek pressed against the warm island rocks. Never mind their roughness, never mind they are painted white from years of seagulls passing overhead, never mind that now; she has made it. She rolls to her side gasping and sobbing, and unlatches herself from the pack. A violent lurch from her stomach sends her own wave of ocean water crashing against the rocks and with a final deep breath, she calms herself with a hearty laugh.

“‘You’ll never make it’, huh?” she says to the brightening blue sky. “Well, here I am . . . Here we are!” She slaps the soggy pack with another laugh. “And we made it togeth—” her face slackens and her eyes open wide. She slaps the pack again. Now softer, but quicker and with both hands probing, but not daring to look just yet. “No.” She gets to her knees and hauls the pack upright and looks where the segments of pole had been just eighty feet before.

Gone. They were all . . . gone.


This was a scene sketch I wrote today for practice. I hope you enjoyed it. Stay tuned for more free reads!

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Filed Under: Middle Grade, Scene sketch, Young Adult Tagged With: Literary fiction, middle grade, scene sketch, young adult

Her lacquered lips spat raspberry-lime in his face.

February 28, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Hello, it’s nice to see you again. Here is a scene sketch I wrote for you this evening. Enjoy!

Like always, if you have questions about what this is about, you can read more here.

—

“I’m special because I know I’m special, and I’m tired of you telling me I not.”

“Get away from that door Marlene! Give me that wallet—” Jeremiah lunged at Marlene.

“Don’t you hurt me—stop!”

He pinned her elbows to her sides.

Her lacquered lips spat raspberry-lime in his face. He loosened his hold. “I’m not hurting you … quiet. quiet.”

Marlene flung her dark braids back and squeezed her face so the skin around her eyes went a pale brown; she sobbed.

“Shhh! Hush.” He held out his arms then quickly replaced them, gently, on her shoulders. “There. Okay now? I’ve let go now, see?” But Marlene wailed on, unaware of her father’s plea.

‘If she is not relentless,’ Jeremiah thought, ‘she would not be her mother’s daughter.’

“Enough. Mar-lene the neighbors are going to call to police darling. Hush now.”

“I hope they do! I hope they come and see you and — and this!” She waved a cream pocket purse at the stairs and then all the house. “What you’re subject-tuh-ifying to your minor daughter.”

“Oh don’t start with that. Here—” he stepped back a step.

“I’m going to leave now.”

“Marlene will you just give me a moment? A damn minute—to help you?”

“You don’t care about me daddy, don’t pretend to care about me.”

“You’re my first born child, you’re my baby girl, I love you mo—”

“You didn’t care when mom was alive, and you don’t now. Except now you can’t drink so you’re more of a jerk.” She wouldn’t let him confess a thing. He pinched the fat bore’s curls on his pocked chin. “A jerk? You really think your daddy’s a jerk?”

“Why else would you be actively trying to ruin everything in my life? Oh, Marlene wants to learn guitar because Mom always said she wanted to—nope! Oh wait, how about: I like writing songs, maybe I can write some poetry, express my life with something, but when I actually need to get the things I need for it, like a ‘laptop’ you tell me that we can’t spend money on a hobby? Yes. A jerk. And a damned fool who don’t care nothing about me or what I feel, or even how I try to make it better!”

They both stared at the waxed wood floor; both shook their head.

“I didn’t have to do this you know?”

“What? Let me stay in my own house? I’m seventeen!” She crossed her arms and plastic rainbow bracelets clinked together.

“Your mother and you had a deal. It’s what she would want.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Marlene.”

Clomp. sccrrrch. clomp—clomp. Marlene banged down the cement steps, through the lawn. She wore pink slippers with plumb puffs on the toes. She held up a final defiant middle finger and slammed herself away in the ancient black Beetle. It cackled to life, trembled, and popped as it turned and drove out of the cul-de-sac.

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Filed Under: Adult, Literary fiction, Scene sketch Tagged With: dialogue, Literary fiction, story sketch

Today's genre prompt is … Literary fiction!

October 26, 2012 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Hello you,

The poll on my facebook is telling me that the leading genre in the poll “Which genre is your favorite?” is literary fiction. This, of course, means we will have a prompt on it. And by goodness we will.

—

Prompt: Write a piece in the style of a literary fiction novel.

—

The nurse was back again. Gone again. Then she was talking, at least I thought she was talking, her mouth moved, yaw, yaw, yaw, but I couldn’t hear her over the warm hum in my ears. I saw my head vibrating with the low, gut jumbling, growl that drowned them out. Drowned them all out.

“And that’s when you you cut their throats Johnny?”

The buzzing stopped and I heard those words a thousand times in a long, distant echo.

“Johnny, hey!”

The voice was the white coat in front of me. Alpha doctor. No bullshit doctor.

“Johnny, I said that’s when you cut their fucking throats, yeah?”

“Doctor that’s enough.” A woman said. I thought she said. All I saw was the alpha coat, and the warm buzzing was trickling in.

The nurse was back again. Gone again. “Buzz humm humm humm buzz …” I hate waiting and sitting and buzzing. I was chilly and I wanted to lay in my bed and pull the covers up to my nose. I wanted mama to put on the television and let me watch Reagan. President Reagan. Reagan was an actor, Reagan was an funny man who became president. I was funny, but mama didn’t think I could be president.

“Johnny dear?”

The voice snapped the noise in my head and light rushed in and I could see clearly then. She was older than me, but just a little. I was eighteen, finally a man, eighteen, and this nurse couldn’t be twenty-two.

“Johnny, sweet heat,” the nurse said. It was the first time I sat up in an hour. The table was synthetic and white. I rested my elbows on it and sat in a plastic chair that wobbled as I tapped my heel over and over and over again.

“Do you have The Hasty Heart?”

I said it before I could stop myself. I broke my rule. Never talk. When you talk then they ask questions, then they think they know something about you, but they don’t know anything.

These villains in their white coats. They said I was a murderer. They said I killed my mama, but they are wrong. I am not a killer. I never killed anything in my life except a small frog, and he was just a small frog.

“Do you mean the movie? The Hasty Heart movie? Yes I believe we can get that.” The nurse sat in my chair’s mate and she turned quick to a little dark nurse in the corner and gestured for her to make note. “That one has president Ronald Reagan in it, am I correct Johnny?”

This white coat was better, softer, but I knew that she was no different from the others. Not really. I’ve seen the nice ones. The nice ones come and go. They always smile. They are gentle and nod and smile and make those eyes at you. Then, when you finally feel like opening up, like telling them something important, like something about Mr. Reagan, or about how a funny guy can be president.

The noise was back in my head and I opened my eyes to the familiar poster on my ceiling. It is bonzo the chimp, and then Mr. Reagan. I smile and pull my covers off and go to the cold desk below the only light the coats leave on at night in our rooms, and I begin to write:

Friday, October 26, 2012

Dear journal,

I survived another round with the white coats. I think they are starting to get it. I am still waiting to hear back from Mr. Reagan to know if he has accepted my invitation for the viewing party for Bedtime for Bonzo, and that I think it was much better than some people say.

Love,

Johnny

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Filed Under: Adult, Literary fiction, Prompt, Uncategorized Tagged With: Literary fiction

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Caleb Jacobo

Welcome! My name is Caleb Jacobo and this is my public writing journal. Read More…

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