Category: 1-page classics

Fiona Cup was raised in a small suburb in the county of Maricopa.

Her favorite pastimes were playing on her computer and hassling her father, though she never called him father.

Just, “hey!”

“Hey, I’m hungry. Fix me some waffles.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever” is all he ever said to her.

“Hey, I’m thirsty. Why isn’t my water bottle full?”

“Whatever.”

“Hey, it’s cold in here. Turn off the air conditioning.”

“Whatever.”

One day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying ‘whatever’, what he really meant was, “You are beginning to get on my nerves, young lady, and it’s high time you learn to show a little respect for an old man. What do you think I am? Your servant?”

It was a very irritating time for the little girl.

Her father, hoping to find a way to make her happy without going crazy himself, knew he had to find a miracle pill, because, after all, it would take a miracle, wouldn’t it?

As he prepared for his trip, she warned him about the ROUSes.

“Readers of uninteresting stories? I don’t believe they exist.”

As usual, he was correct.

“As usual? If I was writing the story—”

“Whatever. Sit still and listen to the story. Don’t make me tie you to that chair.”

Glad for a bit of quiet, the father trudged wearily but contentedly toward Florence in the next county.

Along the way, he met a handful of poor lost circus performers.

Rather than violate intellectual property or copyright too blatantly, we’ll skip over their rhyming conversation, though it should be pointed out that neither the father, nor the goofy guy in tights he thumb-wrestled, are left-handed.

During a battle of wits with another of the circus performers, it was agreed that war, not only a land war in Asia, but in fact any war, makes as much sense as installing Windows on a Mac.

Upon hearing that the giant circus performer could drink 119 bottles of beer in six hours, the father thought to himself, Yep, these guys are circus performers, all right.

To avoid being roped into whatever evil plot they were hatching to foment financial discord between Maricopa and Pinal counties, by finally, finally incorporating Santan Valley as a real city instead of, well, a place generally to the southeast of Phoenix, but not clearly defined by borders or anything useful like that, he climbed the long flight of stairs to the dire romp.

What, you thought he was some kind of cliff climber?

That’s insanity. He’s an old man for Pete’s sake, like pushing 50, and not in great shape either.

The dire romp was all dire, no romp.

After scampering over pavement so hot his trouser legs burst into flame, trudging through what he came to call “slow death by sand and I realize it’s a desert, but it’s suburbia for crying out loud could we install some sidewalks already” and proving once and for all that there’s no such thing as readers of uninteresting stories, he came out the far side of the dire romp.

There he found a thatched hut outside a smelly village. Upon banging on the door of the hut, he met an ancient couple who, while quite talented at witty improvisation, were wholly useless at miracles, in pill form or otherwise.

The non-miracle man had an idea. “Marry the little brat off, that’ll fix her little red wagon.”

“Whatever.”

But upon reflection, the father thought perhaps it was indeed time for the little brat to become someone else’s problem.

He searched high and low, but all the princes were either married, poor, or otherwise unsuitable.

Sitting on the battlements of the local Sweet Tomatoes, while pondering the incongruity of the California Pizza Kitchen right up the street because, what, Arizona has to import pizza now?

Anyway, he was so distressed he didn’t even want pizza.

Okay, I’m kidding. Nobody skips pizza.

But as he ate his pineapple and bacon pizza, he made the sound of ultimate boredom.

Tasty as it was, the pizza, like his travels, brought him no closer to a solution.

Beer being a sort of a solution, he had a couple as he nibbled the pizza crust.

The only problem solved was his hunger.

Sad as he was, he knew he must go home and explain what was what to his little girl.

To effect a prompt return, he allowed himself to be captured by the dread pirate Elderberry, who, upon discovering that the father was looking for a husband for his brat of a daughter, immediately put him ashore.

His plan for a free ride on a sailing ship thwarted, he bought himself a dark blue Toyota to drive home.

Other drivers on the freeway soon tired of him shouting repeatedly “I drive an Indigo Corolla. You cut me off. Prepare to die!”

Good thing it was a short drive home.

Parking in the garage of their suburban home, because, after all, this isn’t California, out here, people actually use their garage to store cars in, believe it or not, he went inside to find his little girl playing on her computer.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find you a prince.”

“A what? I don’t want a prince.”

The father realized that perhaps he had misread the clues.

“You’re probably right. You don’t need a prince. After all, you’re what, nine or something?”

“Twelve, practically a teenager.”

The father spent a moment in silent contemplation.

Then, he delivered a lecture.

Since the invention of the lecture, there have been five lectures that were rated the most irritating, the most bombastic, the most dogmatic.

This one left them all behind.

“And since you’re all nearly a teenager, young lady, how about you make me a cup of tea and get me some of my favorite lemon cookies?”

“Now!”

Fiona Cup hung her head and went to the kitchen.

As she clattered the crockery and boiled water for his tea, he clearly heard her mutter something under her breath.

“Whatever.”

Whatever.

It is a truth seldom acknowledged that a greying gentleman not possessed of a fortune must be in want of a wife. This was brought to light most forcibly in a series of events which began quite innocently: the selection of fabric for Sue Lynn’s new dress, and, incidentally (to her father) that for her sister’s dresses as well.

“How that cornflower blue sets off your eyes, my dear,” said Mrs. Martin to her eldest daughter. “It’s such a shame you hide your charms so. If only you could be more like Linda Sue. She never wants for admirers.”

“No, mother. But then, I don’t want admirers.” Sue Lynn’s father made no secret of the admiration he felt for his daughter’s independent spirit. “I suspect Linda Sue has one too many already.”

“And I’ve one too few!” chimed in Lisa, the youngest in the family.

“Never you mind, dearie. The regiment is staying in Meryton for the winter. You’ll have beaux aplenty by spring!” Mrs. Martin was in no hurry to marry off her daughters — as long as it was done before the following summer, that is.

The bell over the door nearly flew from its hook as Aunt Phillips burst in. “You’ll never believe the news! Netherfield is let. And to a dashingly handsome gentleman. They say he has no wife.”

Mrs. Martin fairly clucked like a hen. “Come along girls, come along! We must be off home at once!”

As usual, Mr. Martin was sitting comfortably in his library when they arrived, and as usual, his comfort soon ended.

“Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin, I’m all of a dither. Netherfield is let and we have no time to lose!”

“My dear, if it’s already been let, we’re too late, though I must say I wasn’t aware we were seeking lodgings. I’ve grown rather fond of where we are now. Still, you know best, I’m sure.”

Fluttering around the room like a startled pigeon Mrs. Martin flapped her handkerchief as if fending off an attacker. “Please, Mr. Martin, please. You have no concern for my poor nerves. Netherfield is let to a single gentleman, and we must make his acquaintance before all the other single daughters are presented.”

“My dear, you’re quite wrong in all cases. Your nerves have become old friends, quite familiar over the years. And I feel no obligation whatsoever to make his acquaintance. I am not, you may have noticed, a single daughter. Though I daresay I have three of the silliest daughters in Meryton, or all England for that matter.”

“Oh, Mr. Martin! You will not visit him, and now our daughters will die old maids, even your precious Sue Lynn.”

“You are most welcome to deliver them yourself, my dear, though perhaps you should send just the girls, for I fear Mr. Canfield may well prefer you and then where would we all be?”

If she were capable of goggling, Mrs. Martin would have goggled. “You know his name? And has he a fortune? Have you invited him to visit?”

Mr. Martin smiled, though it wasn’t a happy smile. “He has not, and I have not. I found him a rather proud man, far too self-assured for my liking.”

Mrs. Martin’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh, my poor girls, my poor nerves, my poor life!” She flounced from the room and wasn’t seen for the rest of this story.

At the first party of the season Mr. Canfield made quite an impression. His self-assurance was off-putting to some, but it did not extend to dancing and so he inadvertently insulted the bevy of fine ladies (and their mothers) who were hoping that he secretly really did have a fortune, despite hearing the contrary oft repeated.

“I’d sooner sit out the dances anyway,” said Sue Lynn to circle of friends around her. “Though a man of that age who can’t dance may not have learned much else in life.”

“Not so, Sue Lynn,” interrupted her friend Lizzie Bennet. “He is not only quite intelligent and accomplished, but a kind and generous man. Only recently he was instrumental in saving my own youngest sister from ruin of the worst kind. I beg you to reconsider your prejudices and welcome him to our village.”

While she was quick to form strongly held opinions, Sue Lynn respected her friend Lizzie and wanted to please her. She also knew that Lizzie wouldn’t let up until she relented, so acquiescence was a practical measure.

“Good evening, Mr. Canfield. I am Sue Lynn Martin. Since you have been too busy to introduce yourself I thought I should bid you welcome to Meryton.”

Standing stiffly away from the pilaster where he had been leaning, he spoke. “Thank you. Er, I apologize for my rudeness. Thank you for making me welcome. Joel D Canfield. Mustn’t forget the D.” He held out one hand, looked at it briefly, and would almost have withdrawn it if Sue Lynn hadn’t taken it.

“Why, he’s not arrogant,” she thought to herself, “he’s simply shy.” Then, aloud, “No apology is necessary, Mr. Joel D Canfield. We never stand on formality here in the country.”

He smiled—and such a smile. Sue Lynn suddenly wondered if a fortune had ever been very important to her, despite her mother’s feelings on the subject.

“Having been forced into a life of formality for far too long, I’m delighted to hear it. I’ve come to the country hoping for some quiet while I write.”

“Oh, you’re a writer,” said Sue Lynn.

“I aim to be. Takes more than writing to really be a writer, I must say.”

“Indeed. Good editing is essential, and of course, an emotionally evocative story touching on universal themes is always a good place to start,” she said.

Mr. Canfield’s eyes widened. “Are you a writer, Miss Martin?”

“We shall see, Mr. Canfield; we shall see. For now, perhaps we can escape this dance and discuss our future further in the well-lit and perfectly appropriate gardens?”

It was about eleven in the morning, late autumn, the sun not shining, angry clouds bunching up against the hills. Had on my middling yellow suit, dark green shirt and blue tie. I hadn’t had a drink for hours, and it hadn’t been much longer since my last shower and shave. To look at me you’d have thought I was calling on four million dollars.

Since I prefer to skip over the boring parts you wouldn’t read anyway, you’ll next find me leaving Mr. Martin’s study where we’d transacted some business I won’t bore you with, any more than I’d bore his daughter with it.

She thought she’d try to persuade me anyway.

“Excuse me.” I’d made it to the bottom of the steps of their mobile home and thought I was home free when she spoke. Visiting a home filled with single women gives me the willies.

“You’re excused.” Not precisely rude, though I’ll admit it wasn’t precisely polite either.

“Hey!” I didn’t even put my foot the rest of the way down on the crunchy brown grass. Voice like that, you turn on your heel and answer, mister.

“Excuse me?”

“I already said that. We’ve covered it. Perhaps we could enter phase two of this conversation?”

“Oh, this is a conversation. I understand. Shall I come up, or will you come down?” That last because she was still on the landing, holding the door shut so no one would catch her jawing with a guy like me. She had reason to be worried for her reputation, whether she knew it or not.

She chose the latter (coming down.) I regretted it; she was a full inch taller than me. Bare feet, even, and my heels add at least a quarter inch.

“My father’s not made of money.”

“Looked to me like he was made of meat, same as you and me.” That was a mistake. She wasn’t smiling before, but somehow her face made it clear that she’d stopped again, just the same.

“I love my father, and I won’t have you or anyone else taking advantage of him.”

I’m used to not backing down from someone with a height advantage, so I answered right back.

“Fair pay for an honest deal.” I don’t blink much anyway, but sometimes it looks intentional.

“Which is?”

“Huh? Which who is what?”

She glared. “What is this honest deal you’re paying fairly for?” Ah, now she clearly had me. A direct question.

“You’ll have to ask your father.”

Her glare went sideways. “I already did.”

“Then you already know.”

“No, I don’t.”

I leaned forward a bit. “Which tells me, tells us, he doesn’t want you to know. Why should I mess up a good thing by making him mad at me already?”

And she sat down and cried. If only she hadn’t peeked over her thumb to see if it was having the right effect. Not that it would have, either way, but I might have believed the crying even if I could still ignore it. Come to think of it, I would have believed General Patton’s tears before hers. Not as big as the Rock of Gibralter, not by a good long ways, but almost as hard. She was no weeper.

Thinking up that whole long paragraph of internal dialog got me across the lawn and into my car. As I pulled away from the curb she was heading around the far corner of the trailer house, on a mission. Since it was probably to follow me, I made a handful of fake turns and spent a minute or two in an alley watching cross traffic. Never saw her once.

I’d been working almost 15 minutes before she walked in. I realized I’d been half expecting her.

“Of all the rentals in all the world, you walk into mine.” I was sorta hoping she was a fan of Bogart.

“He never said ‘Play it again, Sam.’ You know that, right?”

I did know that, but she knew I knew. I thought I’d find out what else she knew.

“What brings you here, ma’am?”

“You can call me Sue.”

“Thank you, Miss Martin.” Now if I could just get my eyes to throw out a humorous glint when I tossed off lines like that I’d be set.

“Well that’s just fine, Mr. Canfield.” Her mouth curved down when she smiled. I don’t know how she did it. I thought I should give her my full attention so as to find out.

“Good. I like it when things are fine. I also like it when people answer my questions. What brings you here? I know you didn’t follow me. You’re good, I see that now, but no one’s that good.”

“My father only has two rentals right now, and you’re not the type for the other one.” Yes, it definitely curved down when she smiled.

“Why is that?” By now I’d stopped working and stepped closer to the door.

“Too classy.” And she laughed. Right from her tonsils, she laughed. It wasn’t a mean laugh, it was the sheer delight of catching me off guard.

“Right about that, Miss Martin. Class doesn’t sit well on my frame. I’m cheap whiskey and jeans, whatever the expensive suit was telling you earlier.”

She leaned forward. Not much, but enough.

“I liked the suit, but I prefer denim.” She stopped leaning. Too bad. “And I prefer this place to the other. You’ll learn that when I say ‘classy’ I use it in the pejorative sense.”

“I didn’t know ‘classy’ had a pejorative sense.”

She leaned again. I tried not to move or breathe or blink so she wasn’t scared off.

“I’ll tell you all about it if you’ll buy me lunch.”

I tried to look like I was thinking. She knew I wasn’t.

“This is too big a job to finish before lunch anyway. Sure, let’s.”

I leaned the broom against the fridge in my new place and opened the front door for her.