Friends,
As you probably know, Tangent Space(s) has existed thus far as a home for observations, ideas, and rants. I've tried to be funny and thought-provoking as I share about things I love or hate. I'm so glad you've read (and will hopefully keep reading!) these tangents.
Now I'm going to try something new: fiction! Here's a short story I thought of today and hammered out. Well, I don't think it's long or thorough enough to even be a 'short story'. Let's go with 'vignette'. I'm sure it's very improvable, but I don't have the patience to work on it more. So here it is, in its raw, untested, original form--the first Tangent Spaces(s) vignette.
The Hero
Our hero strode forward confidently. Something near this city sidewalk was emitting a foul odor that smelled faintly of garbage. Our man, though he was too busy to think twice, or look once, on the source of the smell, decided that it ought to be removed. If it weren't for heroes like ours, one wonders if a world containing such foul smells would even be worth having.
Lo! A wind blew just then, taking the stench with it! The breeze, though, was a cruel master; as it blessedly delivered our champion from the odor, it brought its own affront. The hero had worked hard that morning, as was his custom, to meticulously craft an appearance that communicated, “I don’t care how I look, but I actually sort of obviously do.” If the wind ravaged his hair, his look would simply express, “I don’t care how I look.” Half his work would be lost.
He shook it off and continued his pace, smiling wryly. He had mastered the hallowed art of responding to frustration with a wry smile. And so he strode on, grinning ironically and sipping his coffee. The drink was as regular to his mornings as the careful grooming. But he didn’t need the stuff. Though he was too humble to say it aloud, he thought perhaps the coffee needed him; for what is a drink if it doesn't have someone to drink it while striding ahead confidently?
This made our conqueror recall, behind his disheveled hair and mocking smile, the unusual time he had ordering that cup of coffee.
The line had been somewhat longer than
usual, and our man, though he’s too patient to say it, has always hated a long
line.
One worker, trying to hurry the
process, asked him, “Hello [shchsh]ir, can I get [shchsh]omething [shchsh]tarted
for you?” The question was roughly half words and half saliva.
Eyes wide, he muttered, “Wow,” so that
only the guy next to him in line could hear him. That—saying things so that
only one person could hear him—was another discipline he’d worked hard to
master.
But to the barista he simply said, “Medium
coffee, please,” while thinking, Poor
thing. Did your school not have a speech therapist? Though he was too modest to admit it,
sympathy was one of his more heroic qualities.
He suddenly remembered how skillfully
he’d dropped that one word to the man beside him, so he shot a sidelong glance
(another talent) to gauge the man’s response.
To the hero’s chagrin, the man stared blankly ahead. Was he a statue? Didn’t he realize he’d just
been blessed with comic gold? Dullard.
When he finally received the drink,
our man once again proved his mettle. As
he began to turn away, he casually said, “Thank[shch].” It was just subtle enough that it wouldn't be
noticed by the girl, but he hoped it might somehow break through to Mr. Stoic. Either way, he was supremely pleased; making
fun of someone to their face without the person’s awareness was the ultimate
coup among his people.
It was probably this fond reminiscence that caused the
accident. Our hero, of course, had
somewhere to be. This caused his already
confident stride to be faster than normal, and a quick pace requires an
attentive eye. Our man no doubt knew
this simple fact, but while in the glory of one’s memories, one often forgets
simple things.
And so, while rounding a corner, our hero collided with a
pole. The coffee, still mostly full,
emptied onto the man’s shirt, neck, perfect stubble, eyes. This caused, among other responses autonomic,
a dropping of an important folder and the emptying of that folder’s important
documents. Important things quickly
forgotten, the man clutched at his burning eyes. Folder, papers, empty cup, and then the man
himself hit the sidewalk. In the
collapse, the man’s head (looking more unkempt by the second) hit the wall of a
building.
Perhaps even more curious than the bizarre sight was the progression
of thoughts in the fallen hero’s mind. ‘Help! I need help!’ gave way to ‘I wish Lispy were here to help me. Or maybe
Statue Man. He looked strong.’ It occurred to him what a comeuppance this
would truly be. ‘Comeuppance is a funny word. It
almost doesn't seem real.’
He labored to look left, then right. His face burned, his head hurt, and he was
having trouble concentrating. He looked
again. He very badly wanted that comeuppance
if it meant help, even from someone who couldn't say esses or appreciate a good
joke. ‘Comeuppan[shchsh]…’
But no help came just then. He offered up one last laugh to his wit as he slowly
closed his eyes, noting the faint smell of garbage.
