Postcard Stories 2014


Murray said that it was time for me to leave.

I made believe that I hadn’t heard him and he made believe I had so he went to the hall closet and got my backpack and carried it over to the sofa where I was now laying in a fetal position facing inward, my ass hanging over. I stayed perfectly still and he said that he’d mix us a goodbye drink and what did I want and when I didn’t answer he said, “Okay a Jack and soda coming up,” and then I had a decision to make quickly because I don’t drink bourbon and Murray knew it and it was for damn sure certain he’d bring one in if I continued to play possum.

I’d only been living on his couch for two weeks and don’t know what precipitated getting tossed out unless his grump of a wife held a grudge against me for taking control of the TV remote; but where I come from it’s the couch person who gets that privilege, guest or no guest and I had explained that to Madge on more than one occasion.

Hearing the sound of ice clinking in glasses I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door, stopping only to snag the remote which I tossed  into the azalea bush before heading off to visit the next couch on my list.

Back to Postcard Stories

© 2023 Paul Beckman’s Short Stories • Rights Reserved.
Palm Tree Creative