Short Story 2: All the pretty girls get off at Southport

All the pretty girls get off at Southport

By Stephen Schumacher

A little Hispanic man boards the Brown Line train in Chicago heading downtown slightly after 3:15 p.m. He's wearing a pair of faded blue jeans exhausted by the afternoon and a navy blue t-shirt with respect in the tags. He is like another little Hispanic man who boarded the train earlier. Neither very tall, neither in tuxedos and no matter how young and zestful they actually are - their demeanors are matured and worn.

He boards in clumsy steps carrying a small, plastic bag with a such a focused look on his face his enduring eyes twitch until they drag him to the end of the train car where he hopes to grab one of the two single seats facing one another. He goes about this train seat acquisition with such determination the train's structure begins to wonder if someone once told this man in secret, "Hey, you know those two single seats at the end of the train car that face each other? Those are the best."

Although several other seats are available, these two spots are of top priority for the non-tuxedo caballero. The man succeeds to grab the remaining spot on the left. His personality and burdens sink into and fuse with the plastic, metal and fabric.

He stays on board a few stops - only a few minutes - resting with his eyes shut the entire trip. Yet, he wisely feels the air change from stop to stop and knows when the train arrives at his destination. He can also hear the automated voice howling from its speakers like a urologist, “Paulina is next, doors open on the right at Paulina.”

He quickly jumps from his seat, dragging his bag behind him like a sweaty sack of pancakes as he walks a few steps and gives a postpartum look back at his vacated spot. Nearing the door while the train decelerates, the Hispanic cavalier grabs onto the railing and takes one last glance at his Brown Line thrown before exiting. It's like a sad little game of musical chairs.

Grief does strange things to us.

All the pretty girls get off at Southport.

*Follow me on Twitta - @StephenSchu

Short Story: Exit Through the Sofa

I wrote a short story, and it's below.

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Exit Through the Sofa

by Stephen Schumacher

I was sitting in my leather recliner watching my Samsung television. A flat-screen plasma. Its trim dark like a horse and sleek like Samsung television. I could tell the lamp in the corner disliked the television since its light reflected on the TV's screen, lowering the picture quality. The television never seemed to mind.

My television decided to put on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, which isn't my favorite unit. However, I never was one to actually watch shows. I enjoy listening to the pictures, closing my eyes and feeling the screen's light on my skin. I'm often in the sun during the day, which is too warm, and the television light is much cooler and soothes my sun sores.

I could feel the earth tilt slightly off axis as I noticed something emerging from the sofa like a scarecrow from a corn field. First the feet, then the torso, then the head and hands. The man stood up tall and looked less like a scarecrow. I studied his grey, button down shirt tucked accurately into his horse black suit pants, which were held up efficiently with pride. I couldn't tell if he was wearing shadows or shoes on his feet; the lamp had turned away leaving only the Samsung to shine on him. Either way, his feet looked kind.

I realized the man was Christopher Meloni, because he told me this.

"I'm Christopher Meloni, the actor," he reported. His cheekbones were wise, forehead healthy and his nose nodded at me with approval, "Thank you."

"For what?" I questioned both him and his nose.

"You looked away long enough from the screen to allow me to get out of the TV, but I left through your sofa instead." This made sense to me. The sofa looked like it would serve as a decent door.

"Have you been trying to get out for a while?" I asked.

"For years. But people always watch my show."

"Is it harder to exit televisions when they have glass on them?"

"Yes."

He may have just been a scarecrow.

*Follow me on Twitta - @StephenSchu*