Slightly Irregular
January 24th, 2010
Slightly Irregular is a short story I just entered in the 24-Hour Short Story Contest on Writer’s Weekly. It had prompt and a 900-word limit. I wrote this thing in 12ish hours. Enjoy! Cross your fingers that they like it, too.
Slightly Irregular
With his mismatched, button eyes and folksy get-up, David the Gnome is adorable. He’s Gretchen’s latest creation. Her sister, Rebecca, is going to hate it. Perfect.
David is one of the many new toys Gretchen crafted for Stewart and Molly-her sister’s Pomeranians. Rebecca treats them like fluffy ottomans that occasionally wet the floor. Gretchen wishes she could take them, but she just doesn’t have the room.
It’s Rebecca’s birthday, and she has so many things to be grateful for: an accommodating husband, a successful career, six acres upstate, and a deadbeat sister who knits gnomes.
33 and unemployed, Gretchen is grateful for something. Jeff left her and moved out. No more amps in her kitchen. No more band practices. Just Gretchen and her knitting machine. Jeff always laughed when she would knit. He said it didn’t make sense. She’s not the crafty type.
Gretchen made dozens of creatures for Stewart and Molly. Gnomes, bunnies, squirrels. She’s been stuffing their plump bodies all week, listening to records. With every completed character, she revels in a rare feeling of accomplishment. She’s brought them to life. They seem to appreciate it, too.
From her lap, David’s shiny buttons stare up at her. She admires his crooked, handmade smile. Adjusting his tiny hat, she pictures the little ones’ faces, panting against the icy windowpanes, waiting for her to arrive with a basket of homemade toys. At least they will be happy to see her.
With his last strand of hair finally in place, she she gently inserts the needle to tie the final knot. David lurches in her hand, and a high-pitched voice, says, “Have a cigarette, Gretchen!”
This gnome better pipe down. In the countdown preceding this familial obligation, Gretchen hasn’t smoked for three days-enough time for the nicotine to leave her bloodstream, or so she read. Her mother thinks she quit months ago.
She suddenly finds herself in line at 7-11, shamed by the fluorescent inquisition lights. “American Spirits, yellow pack.” Jeff’s brand. “And the purple flowers.” They’re for Rebecca. She hates purple.
She lights a cigarette off her stove and opens a window. Her head swims. Last one until her drive back Sunday night.
The next afternoon, Gretchen’s cast of woodland creatures is stuffed securely in a basket, buckled in the front seat for the drive upstate. Even they look tense.
Her favorite Wilco song comes on. Jeff could never figure out that chord progression.
She grabs the yellow pack. Just one for the road. And if David doesn’t shut up, she’s turning this car around.
Gretchen parks down the block. A thick cloud of Febreze and a handful of gum should mask the smell.
Rebecca answers the door. “Gary and the dogs are at his parents’ house. I thought we could actually talk this time. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
Damn.
“You smell like smoke.” Thanks, Mom.
Rebecca promptly deposits the purple flowers in the trash. “If the dogs eat these, they’ll get sick.”
An uncomfortable stranger paces the living room. Finally, a kindred spirit.
“Gretchen, meet John. He’s a temp at my office. He likes music, too.” Rebecca pushes John toward Gretchen like a fourth-place trophy.
Double damn.
They all sit, and Gretchen offers Rebecca the basket with David, Thumper, and the others. “They’re for Stewart and Molly.”
“You should make some more of these and try to sell them. Cuter ones, though.” Rebecca grimaces at the misshapen gnome and his hand-crafted friends.
“We have a receptionist position opening up. You could live here until you get everything in order. Get out of the city, Gretchen. We’re worried.” Rebecca softly strokes Gretchen’s tangled mane. “Are you trying to grow dreadlocks, or is that happening naturally?”
David the Gnome cackles maniacally.
This is when Gretchen would normally offer to walk the dogs. “I need something from the car.”
She pops the car lighter and takes a long drag of a cigarette, sinking down behind the wheel. If she leaves now, she could be home by dawn.
A knock startles her. She cracks the passenger window.
“It’s getting ugly in there. Can I join you?” John pleads.
Skeptical, Gretchen unlocks the door and offers him a smoke. He accepts. They stare straight ahead.
“You made this?” John holds David. “It’s cool. My dogs would love it.”
“You have dogs, John?”
“Two Labs. My place is small, but they don’t mind.”
They coast around the block aimlessly.
John likes Wilco, too. His favorite album is Being There. Gretchen’s is A.M. He asks how she and Rebecca turned out so… different.
“So there’s no chance you’re moving here, huh.” John states, defeated.
“Not at all.” Not in a billion years.
“What’s in Queens that’s so great?”
“I think the question is, what isn’t in Queens.”
He shrugs.
“John, did Rebecca put you up to this?”
“Not at all.” He looks out the window. “She thinks I had a family emergency.”
Gretchen grins. She slows down and parks near his car.
“You should keep David.”
John smiles, regarding David thoughtfully, like an artifact of that very moment. “Thanks. I like him. He’s slightly irregular.”
He gets into his car. Gretchen thinks about what isn’t in Queens. She watches his tail lights trail down the street.
Then she thinks about what is in Queens. A knitting machine. Some records. An empty apartment.