Welcome to my first experiment in serializing fiction on my website! This first story is “officially” just for newsletter subscribers, but if you came across it some other way that’s fine, too! (You should definitely subscribe, though, so you always know when the next update drops!)
This is an older story of mine that I recently gave a new update/polish to re-publish. I’ve decided to serialize it here before releasing the ebook, so you get to see it first!
New sections will be added the same date each newsletter comes out, so every other Friday.
Better Not Tell You Now
“Good morning, ma’am. May I speak with Mrs. Bogart?”
“Speaking.”
“Hello, Mrs. Bogart. This is Preston with U-Tel-Us, Incorporated. I’m hoping you have a few moments to share your opinion with us.”
“Hmm… I don’t know. What are you selling?”
“I’m not selling anything, Mrs. Bogart. I’d just like to ask you a few questions regarding your most recent trip to the grocery store.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Percy.”
“It’s Preston, ma’am. U-Tel-Us is an independent company contracted to conduct consumer surveys. Your answers will help our client, a major food store chain, to improve the shopping experience to better suit the needs of customers such as yourself. I can assure you there’s nothing personal in the questions.”
“I still don’t know. What sort of questions do you want to ask me?”
“Well, Mrs. Bogart, the first question is: Are you the primary grocery shopper for your household?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m the only person in my household. Surely you know that; you called me.”
“I apologize, Mrs. Bogart. The only information I have is your name. I know nothing specific about you or your household. So, I’ll put that down as a yes for primary grocery shopper. The second question is: do you shop primarily at a locally owned store, or at a national or regional chain?”
“A regal what?”
“A regional chain. In other words, a large store with many locations, either across the country or at least across one or more states. A store like Walmart would be an example of a national chain; stores like Safeway, Kroger, and Piggly Wiggly are examples of regional chains.”
“Oh, I just love the Walmart, don’t you? The little girls at the registers are all so nice. And, you know, I think the man who stands at the door is a little bit sweet on me. Never gets fresh, of course, but he’s always got a cart ready for me when I walk in, and always says ‘hello.’”
“So, you do your grocery shopping at Walmart, then?”
“Oh, heavens no. That store’s way too big. I only go in there for the pharmacy.”
“All right, Mrs. Bogart. Where do you do your grocery shopping?”
“Well, where do you think? At the grocery.”
“At the— All right. Which grocery store would that be, exactly?”
“The one over on Hudson.”
“I apologize, Mrs. Bogart, but I’m not familiar with your neighborhood. Do you know the name of the store?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Bag and Buy, I think? It’s the one on Hudson. Between the laundry-mat and that little store that sells all the candy. You know the kids that stand in front of that place, they smoke cigarettes, can you believe that? Why, when I was a girl I’d never have dreamed of doing such a thing. And in public even. It’s just—”
“I don’t show a store called Bag and Buy in your area, Mrs. Bogart. Are you sure about the name?”
“Bag and Buy, Cash and Carry. Something like that.”
“I see a store called Foodland?”
“Yes, that’s it. Food Town.”
“All Right, Mrs. Bogart, let’s continue. How often do you shop at Foodland?”
“Well, every time.”
“No, I mean, how often is that? Once a week? Every two weeks?”
“You know, young man, your questions are a bit strange. Why do you want to know all of this? You’re planning to hide behind my car and rape me, aren’t you? I watch the news, I know what goes on. Nancy Grace did a whole special on people like you.”
“Did she now?”
“Yes, Mister, she did. I’ll bet you were one of those perverts she showed, too. I’m not going to shop at the Bag and Carry ever again, so you’ll never find me. How do you like that?”
“Never having to see you? I’d like that a lot, I suspect, you crazy old bat.”
“What did you call me?”
“I called you a crazy old bat. A paranoid, senile, waste of space who doesn’t even know the name of the store she shops at every single week. And that guy at Walmart? He’s called a greeter. It’s his job to say ‘hi’ and give you a cart. You’re nothing special to him; you’re just the addled crone who’s too decrepit to walk all the way to the back of the store.”
“Well, I never—”
“I doubt, Mrs. Bogart, you’d remember if you had.”
Wanted: Telemarketer. Call center experience a plus. Must have excellent people skills.
It was the last listing on three pages full of what looked to Preston like the exact same ad. And they were all the same as the one he’d answered to get the last job, the one he’d gotten himself fired from. He figured he should be looking at something other than phone jobs, but he wasn’t qualified for anything else that paid worth a damn. He was smart, but his one semester of community college did nothing to prove it.
He threw the paper aside, picked his jacket up from where it lay on his grandmother’s old, flowered sofa, and slipped it on. It was faded and threadbare, but still fit the same as it had when it was new, ten years before; his skinny physique had changed little since he was a gangly sixteen-year-old.
He looked in the basket by the front door and found a matchbox car, a few of pieces of mail, some rubber bands and paperclips, a small light bulb, and a metal number five that had fallen off of his apartment door.
His keys were not in the basket. It took half an hour of digging before he located them between the cushions of the third-hand sofa.
An hour later, he dumped three plastic grocery bags of frozen dinners, cans of Chef Boyardee, and packs of ramen noodles into the back seat of his car. He’d put things like groceries in the trunk until a few months ago, when it had stopped wanting to close all the way once it was opened.
When he saw the red and blue lights in his rearview mirror, Preston was faced with a decision. About a year before, he’d forgotten his license was about to expire. By the time he noticed it, it was so far past due he would have had to pay a large fee and take the written test again. Rather than go through the hassle and expense, he’d chosen to keep driving without it.
Knowing he was going to jail for sure if he was pulled over, he decided to take the one chance he had at avoiding that: He fled.
He slammed on the gas, then took the next turn without signaling. He turned into an alley, then another. When he was back on a straight road, he chanced a glimpse into the rearview mirror. No cop.
I got away with it, he thought to himself. It’s about time something went right for me. He relaxed and looked down to turn the radio on, smiling to himself.
He looked back up just in time to stop for the two police cars blocking the road in front of him.
The court-appointed attorney arranged Preston’s bail through a bond agency and, not long after his failed car chase, Preston found himself again sitting on his flowered sofa looking at the want ads. They were all the same again, and he found himself unwilling to apply for anything until after his hearing anyway. You couldn’t very well start a new job with explaining to your boss you were going to miss a few weeks of your new-hire training class because you were going to jail.
His eyes wandered from the job listings to the personal ads. Much like the want ads, the personals also all sounded alike. Everyone in the world, it seemed, wanted someone they could take long walks with, talk with, share jokes and romantic dinners. Someone stable, dependable, responsible. Someone who was not him, not even remotely.
After the personals came the garage sale ads. He read a few, then tore the page out of the paper and stood up. He couldn’t afford many entertainment options at the moment, right when he found himself with a large amount time on his hands. He saw the irony, but failed to be amused by it. Hopping yard sales could be a nice, cheap way to kill his afternoon. To further the irony, the keys to his currently-impounded vehicle were in the basket for once.
The first sale was almost all clothes, most of them kids’ sizes. The next had several things he’d been interested in until he opened a kitschy cookie jar shaped like an owl and a cockroach the size of a brazil nut skittered out of it.
The third sale wasn’t any better, at least not at first. There was a big cardboard box labeled “BOOK’S” on the ground in front of a table full of knick-knacks. He glanced into the box, but wasn’t sure he trusted the literary tastes of someone who didn’t know how to spell books. He moved to a table of miscellaneous crap, mostly toys and games. He wound up a little plastic Woodstock and watched him hop across the table until he hit the edge of a battered Payday game box and continued to hop in place.
A Rubik’s Cube sat beside the board game. He gave it a couple of turns, remembering when he could match up two full sides and all the centers. This was exactly the type of time-waster he was in need of. He was about to buy the cube, but then he saw… it.
Next to the Rubik’s Cube was another plastic toy, about the same size, but round and black. A Magic 8 Ball. He reached out and picked it up. There were some scratches on its once-glossy surface, but it seemed to be in working order.
He knew the Rubik’s Cube was the smarter purchase, that it would better suit his needs, but he felt drawn to the Magic 8 Ball. He held it in his hand, its round shape fitting his palm as though it were made for it. “What do you think?” he asked. “Should I buy you?”
IT IS CERTAIN, said the Ball.
Should you remember to keep reading on 6/19/26? IT IS DECIDEDLY SO!
