Writing Contest: "No Chocolate"

I was assigned to heat #17, the genre of Romance with the subject "taste test." This is what I came up with.


NO CHOCOLATE

There’s no chocolate. It doesn’t seem possible that there would be pumpkin cinnamon or hazelnut with blackberry icing, and a dozen other flavors that Jeffrey’s never heard of, but not a single simple chocolate. He scans the display window again, as if he’s made a mistake. No chocolate. Well, this changes things.

The young woman behind the counter, with her shoulder-length hair streaked with purple, streaked with blue, appears to be putting bins of loose tea leaves into alphabetical order. “Excuse me,” he says, and she pretends not to hear him, and so he clears his throat and tries again, a bit louder.

She turns around quickly, flushed, as if he’s caught her doing something naughty. “I’m so sorry, she says. “I didn’t see you there.”

Jeffrey blushes as if he’s the one who’s been busted. “Do you have any chocolate?” he asks, and gestures to where they should be.

“Oh no,” she says. “Sorry, but you have to get here pretty early in the day if you want the basics, this close to Valentine’s Day.” She has a tattoo on the back of hr arm, a heart rendered into tiny pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, with three pieces absent near the bottom. On a better day, he might have asked her about it.

It’s only mid-January and he finds it hard to believe that people are stocking up on baked goods this far in advance. “But Valentine’s Day is a month away,” he protests.

“So is my birthday,” she says. “If you want to come back with a present.”

Jeffrey laughs, grateful that she’s reminded him that this was supposed to be something fun. “I just might,” he says, as he leaves.

*

The cupcakes were Danny’s idea. That feels a bit weird, on a number of levels. It’s weird enough to take romantic advice from Danny at all, but Jeffrey knows what it means and appreciates the sentiment. It’s also weird to be recycling someone else’s gesture, or so he thinks, but not so weird that he needed to come up with an idea of his own.

He sits outside the bakery, looking through his purchases, while Danny laughs at him from the cell phone he’s got pressed to his ear. “I still can’t believe you’re already in trouble,” Danny says.

“Shut up,” Jeffrey says. “You know it’s not like that.” Even though that’s exactly what it’s like, Jeffrey isn’t about to let Danny be right on this one.

“I know you and I know exactly what it’s like. You had to cancel something at the last minute and now you’re in the doghouse.” Danny takes a bit too much pleasure delighting in Jeffrey’s romantic foibles. It’s transparent and makes Jeffrey cringe.

“Sure, whatever,” Jeffrey says, remembering again: this whole thing is supposed to be fun.

“Oh, and you’re welcome,” Danny adds.

There’s now three sets of the cupcakes, three pairs. Two are chocolate ones from the grocery store down the block, two more are chocolate from a Starbucks, and the last two are mocha chip with chocolate frosting, from this bakery. The bakery has gotten only great reviews, and everyone says, “You have to try the cupcakes.” Unfortunate that they don’t have the flavor he needs. Jeffrey wishes he’d gotten another coffee, sensing that this isn’t going to go as he hopes.

*

“I don’t really like surprises,” Chase says, pouring each of them a glass of water.

Jeffrey had gone and bought a small gift box after leaving the bakery, lined it with paper and carefully placed each of the six cupcakes in it, before heading here, hoping still for the best but noting that hope was dwindling, and quickly. “You’re still mad at me.”

“Mad? No, I’m not mad,” Chase says, joining Jeffrey at the table, and setting the water glasses on the table. “I don’t believe in anger. I’m disappointed.” He won’t make eye contact. They’ve only known each for two weeks.

Jeffrey pushes the box of cakes towards Chase. “Here,” he says.

The box was from a store that Jeffrey had thought he would never enter, full of useless, overpriced gifts, scented candles and personalized key rings, floral-printed wrapping paper and floral-printed gift bags. He’d happened to find this box, the perfect size, and tried to forget that it cost almost as much as all the cupcakes together.

Chase eyes the box for a moment, while they both sit, silent, and then he removes the bow, methodical, and then the lid, while Jeffrey holds his breath.

*

The cupcakes sit on the table, a different table, still in their expensive box, still untouched, and Jeffrey stares at them as if they might offer advice. He thinks about calling Danny but remembers Danny saying something about being busy. He wants a drink, wants company, and the cupcakes are not sufficiently entertaining.

He remembers when things were going well with Chase, just days earlier, and a conversation he’d had with Danny.

“I do not believe you’re dating someone named Chase,” Danny said.

“We’re not dating yet,” Jeffrey replied. He wasn’t sure what the right word would be, but dating was not it.

“Whatever. What kind of parents would name their kid Chase?” Danny paused a second but when Jeffrey didn’t answer right away, he’d continued with his monologue.

“I’ll name my kids Pursue, Hunt, and Endless Quest.” His voice rose as he got himself excited.

“I didn’t name him,” Jeffrey said, “and we’ve only gone out twice, but I do like him.”

“I’m sure you do. But he can’t be as handsome as me, can he? Not possible.” Danny laughed a bit at his own joke, and Jeffrey didn’t answer.

Now he can’t help himself, can’t stand sitting alone in a room with a box of unwanted cupcakes, and he sends Danny a text message: “Didn’t go well. Want a cupcake?”

The response, his phone ringing, is almost instantaneous.

“The weirdest thing just happened,” Danny says. “I was just going to call you. Come over and yeah, bring the cupcakes.”

Danny only lives a few blocks away, which was very convenient when they were dating, maybe less so during those awkward first few weeks after the breakup, but now quite useful again. It’s a little past midnight and Jeffrey is glad he doesn’t have to drive anywhere. He heads out, clutching that same bag of cupcakes he’s been carting around all day.

*

Danny takes the first cupcake and bites, chews thoughtfully. “This is good but not spectacular. I’ll wager this a Starbucks cupcake.”

“Save the guesses for the end,” Jeffrey says. “You have frosting on your nose.”

Danny ignores him and goes for the second cupcake. He studies it for a few seconds and then manages to shove the entire thing into his mouth. “No,” he says, “this one has to be the Starbucks, first one was grocery store.” He says this with his mouth full of cupcake, still with frosting on his nose, and Jeffrey can’t help but giggle. “I’m a pro at this, you know.”

“I know,” Jeffrey says. “You invented this game, I remember. I was there.”

“I remember,” Danny says. He picks up the last cupcake and studies it, turning it over in his hand and then finishes it with three quick bites. “So this is that fancy bakery.”

“Amazing,” Jeffrey says. “You managed to get them all wrong. And you still have frosting on your nose.” Then, without thinking much about it, he reaches out a finger to wipe the icing from Danny’s nose.

“Did I tell you I entered a writing competition?” Danny says.

Jeffrey shakes his head.

“Yeah. I thought it might help me, especially tonight, dealing with you out on a date with some frat boy. It’s just a short story thing, maybe silly. They assign us a genre and a subject and we have to come up with a story. I got mine about a minute before you called and I was going to text you, it’s so funny.”

“Well, what?”

“First tell me what happened with Mr. Chase.”

“He’s allergic to chocolate, and claims he told me this last week.” Jeffrey cringes even in the retelling, remembering the look on Chase’s face as the surprise was revealed.

“Oops. Sorry.”

“Well, it’s only a little your fault. You suggested the cupcakes, but you never said chocolate. So?”

“My assignment, well, I am supposed to write a romance story. I am supposed to write a romance story about a taste testing.” Danny says, raising his eyebrows for punctuation. “I thought it had to mean something,” he adds.

Jeffrey doesn’t say anything for a moment, or two. Then he picks up one of the uneaten cupcakes, rotating it in his hand, studying it. He remembers a feeling, with Danny, a sketch of something almost lost. He remembers the night, years before, when Danny had surprised him with the original cupcake taste test, and he smiles. He puts his finger into the icing, and puts that same finger to Danny’s face.

“You have frosting on your lips,” he says, and leans in.


http://www.nycmidnight.com/2010/SSC/challenge.htm

Wish me luck.

An Eighth Grade Composition Assignment! Really!

I just found this, a composition that I wrote on Dec 17th, 1985. In case it isn't obvious, this is totally a work of fiction:

When people think of Christmas, they think of a happy, jolly time when everyone is happy and kind. Wrong! Some families, maybe, but definitely not mine.

On this day, five weeks ago, it was two days before Christmas. Well, we were decorating our tree (we always do it late), making cookies, and wrapping presents all at the same time. My mother was screaming and my father was drunk, as usual. When we were finally finished, we put the presents under the tree, and put the cookies on a nearby table. Suddenly, the tree fell, crushed the presents, smashed the cookies, and killed our dog.

So we went on a mad dash to get new presents, a new tree, more cookies, and a new dog. None of which we found.

The next day, Christmas Eve Day, was a mad dash once again. This happened every year. We found a tree, presents, cookies, and a dog. When my mother and I came home, it was night-time.

We soon discovered that my father was missing, and we went hunting for him, as we did every year. Usually we found him laying a gutter and then we went home. This time was different. We found him in a gutter but when we got home, our house was missing.

I looked up in the sky and I thought I saw a tiny sleigh.

"...and I heard him saying, as he drove off, out of sight, 'Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good-night."

Not Smoking, Now

Twenty years ago today I made quite possibly the dumbest single decision of my life. I accepted a cigarette on the ride home from school. I'd been an offbeat, gawky, nerdy teenager and in the second half of my high school career I was willing to do anything to change that image. It seemed at the time that smoking, along with drinking, along with whatever else, might prove that somewhere inside me was a kid who had potential to be cool. This is all my fancy way of admitting that I caved, with little resistance, to peer pressure.

I remember that first cigarette, a Marlboro red in Mike McCollum's car. I remember the taste.

I don't know why I gave myself over to it so quickly, so willingly, but within a month I was a serious smoker, maybe not addicted yet but perversely anxious to get there. Less than a year later, I was smoking a pack a day, inching towards two.

I let it define me. I thought it defined me.

I never really tried to quit, for twenty years. I never went a day without at least one cigarette, and most days I had dozens more than just one. I always said that the day would come, one day, when I'd be ready to quit, but I don't think I ever really believed it. It's hard to imagine stopping an activity when you're doing it every fifteen minutes, every day, for decades. I thought it defined me, and I didn't know who I'd be without it, and I was scared to find out. Maybe I knew the day would come but I couldn't guess when.

December 11th, 2009, I went out for a smoke, unremarkable as I paced around outside Richard's building and listened to "One" by U2 on headphones, unremarkable except when I flicked it away I knew it would be my last. All that time and I was right: when the moment came, I recognized it, and when that moment came, quitting was as easy as starting had been. I had imagined I'd be cranky, crazy, sweating, sick to my stomach, who knows what else, but I wasn't. I was still me, just not smoking. And twenty-five days later, I still am, still just me, not smoking.

It didn't define me.